But what I really wanted to say was that

yesterday, in the evening, at 8:35, after your

bath, and I was playing with your towel,

over your eyes,

covering, uncovering,

and you laughed in delight once you understood

the pattern

and then I stopped to get your shirt and as I

opened the neck wide to fit over your head

you laughed

almost wildly

and I wondered why,

and then I understood

your excited apprehension

and we had established

the game.

• This poem appeared in the Mundane Joys anthology by Derailleur Press in 2021.

And they were there again

            the rolling hills—untended—

just scattered in the shadows

like a dream itself, or a paper tiger

nestled close to a hidden flame, and the stars,

by the thousands—unconcerned—

simply flooded the sky,

gathering forward, like an eager crowd gathers

at the carnival entrance. 

We stopped the car and walked

up a familiar hill, the homes, set gently back

            toward the forest, trees once

worshipped, had not changed

at all, to my eyes, nor had the deep ditches

with their milkweed,

and thorns, and silent wasps,

even the dents in the road

retraced my steps.

And that was the dream, essentially,

except then there was the part where my father

and I ended up at the bottom of another hill

            —unfamiliar—it seemed

and he said, It’s better to walk

from here—even though we were

walking already—

but our progress was slow, each blade of grass

a cause for wonder, and swarms of birds

from every species, and he named them all,

            one by one,

that is what slowed us down,

so much, and when everything had been named,

we came upon a box with a light so faint,

            it drew us closer, to see the contents,

and I waited for him to give it the name,

                        ––yet he hung back, and so I

waited, and wait still.

• This poem appeared in Issue 17 of Antiphon, 2016. Do you want to hear me read the poem? Of course you do. Listen here.

My home town is entombed in ice and the streetlamps are tall

finials of snow. I am looking for the journalist, the one who is writing

the story, but all I see are people—people, carrying suitcases. 

The car slips backwards, then centers itself. I enter a room filled

with typewriters. My muscles ache. The clock tells me that I

should be at the airport, but there are so many stairs to climb.

My sister arrives, looking calm. She helps me sift through the

boxes and rectangular files. No one looks up. The air disappears,

returns. From a distance, my hair still looks dark—dark, and black.

The man with the rawhide face edges closer. The stew must

be cooked in three batches, he says. He tears off bits of the story.

As he leaves, he produces an infant child from the stucco wall. 

Midnight cold sets in. Hourglasses stiffen; dirt in the pavement

chokes. This is why the flames are such a surprise

when I turn the corner.

• This poem appeared in Issue 12 of the beautiful Storyscape Literary Journal in 2016.

Make me into a movie. Come down my

elevator. Fall over my couch and stumble

onto the living room floor. Make yourself

a coffee. There's nothing to it. Breathe a

sigh of relief. Move your pawn forward.

I'm all out of rooks. No matter. Play on. 

Take me to some country inn. Let the snow

fall. Lift the lid on the piano and hand me

my pipe. I'll sing for you. Pour me a scotch

and soda, that's right. Now move the inn

south. An island?  OK. In a storm? Just so.

Come on in, the water's great. 

Stand me by the edge of a sandy cliff. 

Pretend  that I will jump then locate my lover

in the misty distance. All is well. Let's cross

that bridge some other time. Preach me a

sermon while the desolate sun determines

its next move. Exit, stage left.

I am everywhere I have ever been. I stand,

waiting, in the lighted hall of an unmarked

school. I sleep high above a grassy pyramid. 

I rummage lazily in the back of an abandoned

car. I tell tales in a makeshift cavern on a

midsummer's night. I lock and unlock the

cellar door. I interrupt a lonely twosome.

I am called to attention in a triangular well. 

The landscape condenses the ground under

my feet. I am rescued by a wandering Saint

Bernard. I crouch, fearful, in the spires of an

unfinished church. My legs tighten with the

onset of vertigo.  Dissolve, all.

I am smoking on a rooftop in Antigua.  

This is my world now. The talk relapses

by turns: death and recent earthquakes.

I recall a cemetery, in a teenage embrace. 

These trees appear rootless, by comparison. 

A narrow fog floats in, then hurries past. 

These people make me nervous. I will

cross the lake instead, circle the broken

volcano and lie in wait for the cardboard

artist with whom I danced last night, she

of the long and straight and immovable,

blonde hair.

• I lived in Guatemala the summer of 1984. This poem appeared in Issue 6 of Innisfree in 2008, edited by Eric Pankey. I read it along with a few other poems at The Writer's Center in Bethesda.

onward tiberius, gather

your unseasoned native son.

the winter gales on the far side of

exile have flooded the southern plains

with disrepute.  obedient passengers, like

the petrified refugees of herculaneum, herd

together to endure the storm. a martyr's parade,

flimsy, and hope for a payoff at the end is limited

to those who can withstand an uprising.  they

furrow the roads with burnt weapons, wire

crosses and the like. yet even these can

hardly know  . . . that cemeteries have

no conscience at all. those who’ll

die in armed struggle, and

those who'll simply die,

will all rest, beside.

• This poem appeared in Red River Review in 2004.

Let us write a poem about nothing

at all, not about us nor anyone else,

not about love nor youth nor anything.

Let us write it on the open plain.

I don't know exactly when I was born, 

nor who my family is, anymore. I am not

a nomad yet I have no home. I am not like

nor unlike you and I don't know how to be

otherwise. I was visited at night by a fairy

on a high mountain.

I don't know when I fall asleep or when I

wake up unless someone tells me.

I have no curtains on my windows. I do not

delight in sun or moon or stars. I sleep best

under the rim of freezer jars.

I don't know the difference between

low tides and high ones. I cannot 

use a telephone anymore. My mode

of transportation is never the same

yet it never varies.  I don't know

where the only place to eat is

in this town.

I don't know if the earth is round or

flat, and I do not care. I cannot stand

upright anymore anyway. My back

accepted an invitation from a snake.

I have three rose gardens if I

have any.

Ship lights never mark my path. I am

unwanted in most galleys and my best

game of tennis was years ago. I can sit

on a fence post and not even know it. 

The old clocks I found were

no longer mine.

The ashes in the fire have returned

to tinder. Whether yesterday was tearful

or joyful I cannot remember. My clothes

have holes where they are not worn. 

I do the St. Vitus dance on an icy

shelf. I am a facsimile of myself.

My grammar is poor

and my dictionary

has gone sour.

I am sick. I will likely die.

I don't know what to believe.

I've sought out a doctor but I

cannot remember who it is. If

I am cured, I will not be better.

I have a lover whom

I don't know because

I've never seen him. 

He's never brightened

nor burdened me. 

What's the difference.

I invite no one into my home.

I've never seen him yet

I love him with all my heart.

If I don't see him I feel fine,

it's not worth a dime,

I know someone who is even

more handsome, more gallant.

I know where he lives,

but I don't dare say.

I keep silent.

I know where he is

every moment of the day

and I grieve when he goes

and when he stays.

To him I have absolutely nothing to

say. Our conversation never ends.

I could wrap my tongue around a

peasant's head if I had not cut it out

long ago.  I bake cookies in the oven

for the dead and I rejoice when a purge

turns the waters red.

This poem was made

I don't know by whom. 

I will send it to you

as it was sent to me;

to unlock it perhaps

you possess

the correct key.

• I have always loved troubadour poets and Guillaume IX was my second favorite, next to Marie de France, of course. This is a free adaptation his Faray un vers de dreit nien, written from the woman's perspective. Not love's conquest; rather, love's consequences. It was published in Volume 84, Issue #1 of Dalhousie Review in 2004.