#AmericanWriters
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
1. THE SACRIFICE On this tile the knife like a sickle-moon hangs in the painted air
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…
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…
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book
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
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away
We invent our gods the way the Greeks did, in our own image’but magnified. Athena, the very mother of wisdom, squabbled with Poseidon
January Contorted by wind, mere armatures for ice or snow, the trees resolve to endure for now,
My husband gives me an A for last night’s supper, an incomplete for my ironing, a B plus in bed. My son says I am average,
Some say it was a pear Eve ate. Why else the shape of the womb,
The gathering family throws shadows around us, it is the late afternoon Of the family. There is still enough light
I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw when we stand
The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies of long extinct animals, cars lie abandoned wherever
For Jews, the Cossacks are always… Therefore I think the sun spot on… is melanoma. Therefore I celebrat… New Year’s Eve by counting my annual dead.