poem: love letter to cassandra, 1997

cassandra has her hair in muse of delphi dressed-downedglam -- curls, and a red scarf. she is reading pasternak. my grandmother had her ecstasy moment when princessDi died -- she called my mother for the first time in twenty-five years, and did not apologize, but criedover the phone. I listened from the hallway. I was… Continue reading poem: love letter to cassandra, 1997

poem: ‘muse’

the christmas tree divorced in the window, the ce n'est pas real tree -- she is wearing a red sweater, the thread caughtat the edge of her neck, the cotton peter-pan collar. when she coughs the spit rides up her throat in a divorced ball and he, watching, imagines taking it out, colliding it, marrying… Continue reading poem: ‘muse’

poem: oxbridge

he came from his side of the bed: whiteshirt, white sweater, whitetrousers with the cresses pressed in, as if he was a gothic romantic caricature of the fine, last old age, aging likeyoung wine, the dorian grey bright and apparent andhelium-esque on his face, he took my thinwhite hands inside his own,unworked, thin hands --… Continue reading poem: oxbridge

poem: strange birds

I dream he was at my breasts, my baby, my lover; and here I am, mutilated daily -- by choice -- I swearto God, by choice; his tongue goes down like a rawmachine, the taffeta and the serfs worn like an anklet, bracelet, iron-neck collar; I swear to God, it is all by choice, his… Continue reading poem: strange birds

poem: they say, men fall off the bottom curve of the earth

he bit into her — in long, sloping strides, and theirAfter was like the fall of Troy, her dress caulking down to herankles in the same violet waves, as she had seen, in the leavingof the wooden places she called Now, and now in his comingbetween her, the ships rising and firing and not ever,… Continue reading poem: they say, men fall off the bottom curve of the earth

writing: screenplay #3, “muse”

The window is gothic, church-shaped, above her. She is bending over a wooden desk, working furiously; outside, it is autumn and the light is brilliant and orange. Her hair tucked hurriedly behind her ears, curling out. He comes and stands above her, looking down; there is something unusually serious about him; he is a person… Continue reading writing: screenplay #3, “muse”

poem: shire’s end

rather laboriously, my father was forced into. a marriageand the lavender sucked head, in dreary smokestack columns, all underhis window. the sun was lowand always hot; the gardens sank and gasped,as if as if -- I was metallic lady Diana sat in permanent mourning or waiting or hoping. as a woman, I was alwaysdoing all… Continue reading poem: shire’s end

poem: writing camilla

he slept on the desk, in half-glacier grandsnow sweaters, the pine trees and cardinal birds, their throatsbright and ready! red, sloping down to his hands --big and masculine, and knotted up fromwriting her, sad long letters; when the day swept to a small close, the trees leaning in, snow falling off and conjoining; he slept… Continue reading poem: writing camilla

poem: psychology of a paris review or new yorker tote bag

she looks like every other bitch; she is readingThe Secret History, and I wrote in the back of Normal People -- if you read too much at one time, yourchest hurts; and I also filled out the Geriatric depression Scale in the back pages, like that asshole Connor did, in shuffling masturbatory pencil. Love toreme… Continue reading poem: psychology of a paris review or new yorker tote bag

poem: my charger

thirty day poetry challengeday 06– ‘my charger‘ was sometimes a wattpad boy (and I mean that ironically and also unironically) -- who wanted to go to Heaven nowrather than later, because it seemed betterthan whatever else; I don't know if that really counts as wanting to kill myself, he said; but I was listing, the… Continue reading poem: my charger