More on: Poetry

I’ve been trying not to live my life / only in response to death.

I forgive the absent boy.

Beyond, / the Atlantic gapes. Anonymous. / I don’t know how I’ll let you go.

Then, slowly, we move through the gate.

I write down three facts about bluebirds— / each one on a separate scrap of paper / like fortunes that are sure to bring happiness.

And I am what but a hair machine / He loved but could not recognize

I am my parents’ first book.

let pass another word / of love impossible submerged.

Two figures, one of them kneeling, / have mastered the washing machine.

Brutish tongue in both; I’ve caught / myself as a wildness.