Poetry
They woke to the primal sway / of grass, cold fire. Here was // a light rain falling from the eyelid / of the sky.
The doctor clicks his pen and says it’s just a phase. / My fat moon-face comes second to the x-rays // he pulls from a folder labeled with my room number. / I’m taking 75mgs of Prednisone a day.
I hear you just beyond reach / of the flickering light of / the TV, which you’ve kindled / as a kind of controlled burn
Given an infinite universe, / given a finite body, / given the bounding constellations
/ of atoms that trace the flesh…
And, eventually, we remember only the deepest/ gloom, waiting still for the sudden suspense / of illumination—
Inside the clear glass orb whirl two ribbons / of orange and blue, a goldfish in a bowl.
My sister left for a few weeks, and the lid lifted / off the stock pot. The house filled with the possibility / of eating bread
For you, that week, we bought peaches like eggs: / twelve in a box, more than we’d had in years: // pink-skinned, white-fleshed…