pharaohs and faroes

like you said:
i'm afraid that the wind might
become my only home.

i don't know that i have the
strength to land.
to cling to the earth.
to keep from falling
into the sky.

could i sit here a while?
in your pews?

the wasps are building a
hive on my ceiling.

shibboleth

the israelites slew their
enemies and i lie awake at
night trying not to hurt
their feelings.

it's like when you're late,
and, dashing out the door,
your sleeve catches on the latch.

the nausea that comes from
eating after months of starving-
the flavour stabs, the inner
walls protest.

can you say shibboleth?

hollow, i can walk.
empty, i can breathe.
a dancing, somersaulting bellows,
a reed flute.

my belly is full of iron and you.
just leave me alone.
you presume.

the lord's people had human
enemies. they put them
to the sword.

203-366-1454

cousin paulie called from connecticut
to say he may be senile,
and to ask about
the weather down south.

cousin paulie calls twice a year
or so, asking for josie or
for aunt marge. all his phone
numbers are written on scraps
of paper, hummingbirds flitting
around his desk, crawling into
his ears-
a dark warm cave, buzzing
gently with his sawdust voice.
flat sandpaper voice
with bushy eyebrows climbing
up and down its ladder.

"it's humid in the summer,
cousin paulie, but our winters
are much milder than connecticut's."

is uncle peter there?
do you have his number?
is this mrs. krumpol?

november 6th

still sunny on november 6th
cool in jeans and a light
sweater. recently, talking about
the weather has become taboo.
but i think it is a shame
to ignore
the sun

george knox from 1849

pregnancy: one person
candy-coated
inside another.

there's always that moment when you can see through your hand.

a whole wall of miniature
file cabinets,
drawers shooting out from
my chest, the gun that
fires a flag, unrolling to
shout

BANG

i have a secret

will i ever even be the missing puzzle piece.
or just a one-piece puzzle.
that unsmiling daguerrotype.

too school for cool

you're too much all together, all the sun's rays in one magnifying glass.

no more inferred body parts,
we're leaving these bagel shops behind.
keep my eyes open;
their lids are locked in our safe,
for sunday-wear only.
eyelids and that bonnet.

open and willing.

i want someone to prove me wrong.

dream log

i dreamed last night that the boys were in the kitchen, burning the same pan over ad over again. the children, my little brothers and a tiny, brown-cheeked girl, stood in the no-man's-land between the ocean and the shore, my father and i watching as they raisined their toes.

a wave came- tall as a horse, a ceiling, the sky, tall as the atlantic is wide, but greedier than any of those- leapt up and swallowed them, dragging them, leashed, out to sea, sharp fingered. they were years younger than they are, and gone.

my father and i fell upon the waves, turning each one over, looking beneath, and feeling all the way into the corners. the little girl rose up in his arms and i tugged at the wings on her back, wrenching her about; they were a gift from the sea, not from heaven. she choked and i pushed her hair from her eyes.

my father climbed up to the beach, frantic, and the sea became a rug, soaked and dark green with black rubber shores. we ran our fingers across its surface, searching for lumps, pennies smothered beneath

smoke continued to rise from the oven, ruined pans all in a line.

scales and feathers

i've neglected my sketches.

dear little doe-girl, honking and gooselike, rifling through her ruffled feathers before the mirror, starting, turning, and out the door before i can even step foot inside. frozen in the door frame, nose inside and white cotton tail in the hall, watching me dry my hands, darting.

a bird, greedy for glimmer.

digging so deep wearies my shoulders and eyes, shoveling up history, a ditch into the future.
that's the reason for the small pond. you may be an uncomfortably large fish, but you don't have enough others fish to pick who you rub shoulders with.