The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

Aging (7)

How much was it the bleeding

How much something else

How much is always saying

How much is that doggie

How much the window itself

How much the mango

How much the reprieve

Aging (6)

On this very street it rained

Because that is what happens in May

I may always be wrong

An object controlled by physics

The force of two bodies

If this is to this

My mother’s lover is friendly

My husband likely wanted a son

Biology is mostly cybergenetics

Most lives are dull

Duller than a dollar Ella says

But I think she’s just talking about sound

The Missing Ring

Ankle-deep in the clover,
my girls and I hunt not for the symbol
of the thing but for the thing itself,

flash of sterling and diamond
in the grasses, the exchanged thing,
that which a decade ago

I stood greedily accepting among
the ranunculus and just-parted skies,
how the soul offers herself up,

how I took the name as if it were my own
and wrung it round my finger,
a child tying a ribbon to remember,

and memory itself a lopsided thumb,
a paging through all the seasons,
and so spring is come again, and what

could I do but put the ring in my pocket,
a safekeeping that isn’t safe, a hole
worn through by the materials that mark me

as mother and wife, less seldom as woman,
but as woman too, and losing it,
do I lose everything, do I lose nothing,

do I lose that moment some fifteen years gone
when sitting in a well-lit room, he told me,
breathlessly, that I have such pretty feet?


I have been feeling like nothing


The Interrogations (14)

And can you see now?
Only that which is no longer present.

From Over Connecticut

and by houses

I mean bodies


But maybe I was nine

And the jar’s lid was rusted


From Over Connecticut

heart balled up in the chest

What Happened

This is not a memory.

from Over Connecticut

At the funeral home, we forgot to eat.