More on: Poetry

I had heard of men like these, their fingers / striking the valves to yield the word of God.

The first pregnancy: “my belly growing big, for what? / no one can tell me what’s going on. / nausea I don’t understand, weeping / for hormones with no name.

At night they slept in the car / like angels thrown against a tree.

We downed ginger beer and punch; drank / in our parents’ fear of standing out— / never Boston nor Brahmin enough.

I guess having a sister is about
more than just a body.

never mind
the fickleness of the light
here, the damp that would

a more flimsily
rooted loveliness
drown.

I dream myself the boy thrown
from the Jeep again: face, burlap

to hide what the boys made
with their fists.

A friend reminded me recently of joy—
my joy. My laugh, infectious, she said.

Even a book is simple in this folded
World. Though my throne is hidden, the horn-shaped moon

somewhere someone is dying you remember but
see the ache and its grace in frantic flight