More on: Poetry

The snake contorts and / stiffens grapples for a foothold Its body / becomes letters scrawled in shingled light

On my prow, the dove; / from my brow, every animal paired.

At three, I saw the shade of living light. / At eight, I was enclosed as an oblate. / The universe is an egg, I said, / and the nuns promoted me.

A poem for lost love. “If I wash myself / where will you go?”

You are not here. / Just this precious, flawed body, briefly home / to your soul.

Hunger is what drives, / unloveliest of urges, most / appealing to the gaping grave.

To think—I thought it cute, / the doctrine that the oak trees sculpt / the air and water

May the curious prayer of work keep me / in contact with the stone / / and who knows what else.

the gates are not pearly / but white and scaly / like fish.

I wasn’t afraid until / I peeked into the hall, saw a black-clad SWAT team / scooting along the wall, rifles held vertical, a strict formality / that made the whole world seem shabby.