#AmericanWriters
Some say it was a pear Eve ate. Why else the shape of the womb,
1. THE SACRIFICE On this tile the knife like a sickle-moon hangs in the painted air
January Contorted by wind, mere armatures for ice or snow, the trees resolve to endure for now,
I am only leaving you for a handful of days but it feels as thought i will be gone forever the way the door closes
It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are bro… My mother and father still hovered
I have banked the fires of my body into a small but steady blaze here in the kitchen where the dough has a life of its…
The gathering family throws shadows around us, it is the late afternoon Of the family. There is still enough light
I remember what my father told me: There is an age when you are most… He was just past fifty then, Was it something about the trees t… There is an age when you are most…
Pierre Bonnard would enter the museum with a tube of paint in his pocket and a sable brush. Then violating the sanctity of one of his own frames
The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies of long extinct animals, cars lie abandoned wherever
After Adam Zagajewski I am child to no one, mother to a… wife for the long haul. On fall days I am happy with my dying brethren, the leaves…
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away
We think of hidden in a white dres… among the folded linens and sachet… of well-kept cupboards, or just ou… sending jellies and notes with no… to all the wondering Amherst neigh…
I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw when we stand
Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come this manic animal