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CategoryPoetry

 

Achromatopsia

Colors hiding in the fields. Having fled my eyes in a sudden mutiny. A revolution rare among visual glitches. City rendered sad, a cold faded etching. Egg yolks the color of cream. Blood stains uncarnadined. Startled birds white on a gray laurel hedge. Went to sleep with the reds and …

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Elegy with Steam

When I was sick with a head cold, my head full of pressure, my father would soak a washcloth in hot water, then ball it up, ring it out. He would open it above my head, then place it against my face like a second skin, the light around me …

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[SPECULUM] ENVY

I was jealous of my brother’s race car bed and jealous of my neighbor’s swing set. In a memory, a house across the street is knocked down by a yellow construction vehicle and I watch from my uncle’s lap where we sit in the attic. He has a penis and …

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Chemistry

We were side by side in chemistry. Hands touched the same beaker, still, no reaction. I remember your cheeks were warm streaks. We learned about the water cycle. I knew all about it. Rising heat and condensation changed the course of thundering, rainfall. But I didn’t brag much, when we …

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Basho’s Death Poem, New York City

Sick on a journey my dreams wander the withered fields – Basho In an old notebook were the beginnings of a poem about Basho’s last poem, the one he composed while he died. In the notes, the speaker walks from 31st Street to 17th in Manhattan and remembers Basho’s lines. …

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The Devotions

Sneezing and shiner-eyed in an entire landscape ripped           by wind and today I wrestle every negative arriving my inbox while finches feast on suet, rubbing           round heads to each other, to glued seed. March is and did and has just …

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I Loved Lucy

I wanted to be like Lucy—trapped on the IRT with a loving cup stuck upside down on my head— and not get mugged. To steal John Wayne’s footprints from Grauman’s Chinese Theatre without remorse, then bunk with Ethel for a whole week, mindless of half-naked show girls, the fact that …

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My Birthfather Explains His Death

Antarctica, 1979 Death is not dark as you’d imagine, but white, frozen, your name signed into the otherworld of stone and ice. It’s easy to die — one day you’re 22, offloading a Coast Guard cutter, and the next, you’re tumbling toward the snowsheet, pinned beneath it, your heart slowing …

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These Things Permit Less Gratitude

Rising like westerly smoke, the death last night was beautiful. I’ve got no reference for forests burned to ash, transformed to sky, but for now I’ve named this East Coast evening – Dimmed. Disappointment in Dad’s bloodshot grey, become Maine sunset. I shudder with the coming morning. Death may be …

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