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Memoryexpand_moreIn a way she enjoyed the slow, sad feeling of letting it go.
I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.
My desire to be in sync with him had nearly been my undoing.
How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.
Those eight or nine steps climbed toward a small, low window.
The chocolate was old, dusty white, the way chocolate gets after many years.
She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.
She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.
When he was a child, my father had a cousin who was buried by a plow.
The stones here carry the island’s low cry inside them. A landlocked grief.
It’s there and then it’s gone, just light through the window.
I’ll see you on the sea, they say, but then they float past on a raft
Since I am in my seventies, it is now or never, and I know it.
What if my mother could have been happy if I hadn’t been born?
The author reflects on a soldier’s experience, in just six words.
Death is a lack, I suppose, and love more so. But I will not falter.
He guessed it was the worst thing he had ever seen or maybe ever would.
I’m mourning in the armpits of a lover we once called a family friend.
Snows piling in his crying mouth. Cold gave him a light complexion.
“It was not wartime sentiment that moved me to ask you here.”
Had I always known this would happen? There had been no signs.
Lost land, this is a song for the scars on your back, for your blistered feet.
Even before bills and rent and adultery—you don’t sleep well.
We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.
In every pair, one shoe smells of exodus, the other of the body’s sweat.
I want to cut loose from her each wistful sigh I hear escape her lips.
It’s just a great big old world with Santa and angels all around.
Poems and stories are the whisperings of angels we cannot see.
