Poetry

I’m barely middle aged. She is astounded
That love should finish here, just where it started.

“The body goes into such raptures of obedience.” — Linda Gregg Peering into the milk of a lamb’s eyes, I think of only the stench— . blood, strewn across blades of grass. . The wool on her back courses beneath my fingers, recalls the copper beard I caressed as a child. . The man who […]

like grandma,
her daughter,
has grown
thin enough
to pass
between
the strings
of an aeolian
harp on a cliff

my father’s /
body is an intersection of many borders. he found /

home in the wrong countryside.

There is only you and me and the new carpet and the dusty clock hand, there, slowly bending as the bedroom fills with laughter and late afternoon. There is glee in this time—the hour before departure, the final song that will stick to my skull like honey. The love lyric, the soft clang of bells. […]

The myths are logged in our collarbones, / travel through our mid riffs. Our stomachs / learn to home mythologies as prayer.

before love is cartooned worthy of honour,
before lawyers bind grief into forms
where careful records make up for absence

a man drenched himself in gasoline /
to protest the Biafran war. He’d stood across the road /
from lunatics cheering for him to die.