Snow
Late December: my father and I Are going to New York, to the circus. He holds me On his shoulders in the bitter wind: Scraps of white paper Blow over the railroad ties. My
The Silver Lily
The nights have grown cool again, like the nights Of early spring, and quiet again. Will Speech disturb you? We’re Alone now; we have no reason for silence. Can you see, over the garden-the
The Fear Of Burial
In the empty field, in the morning, The body waits to be claimed. The spirit sits beside it, on a small rock Nothing comes to give it form again. Think of the body’s loneliness.
The Pond
Night covers the pond with its wing. Under the ringed moon I can make out Your face swimming among minnows and the small Echoing stars. In the night air The surface of the pond
Midnight
Speak to me, aching heart: what Ridiculous errand are you inventing for yourself Weeping in the dark garage With your sack of garbage: it is not your job To take out the garbage, it
Circe's Power
I never turned anyone into a pig. Some people are pigs; I make them Look like pigs. I’m sick of your world That lets the outside disguise the inside. Your men weren’t bad men;
A Fantasy
I’ll tell you something: every day People are dying. And that’s just the beginning. Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born, New orphans. They sit with their hands folded, Trying to decide
Cana
What can I tell you that you don’t know That will make you tremble again? Forsythia By the roadside, by Wet rocks, on the embankments Underplanted with hyacinth For ten years I was happy.
The Gold Lily
As I perceive I am dying now and know I will not speak again, will not Survive the earth, be summoned Out of it again, not A flower yet, a spine only, raw dirt
The Red Poppy
The great thing Is not having A mind. Feelings: Oh, I have those; they Govern me. I have A lord in heaven Called the sun, and open For him, showing him The fire of
Confession
To say I’m without fear It wouldn’t be true. I’m afraid of sickness, humiliation. Like anyone, I have my dreams. But I’ve learned to hide them, To protect myself From fulfillment: all happiness Attracts
Penelope's Song
Little soul, little perpetually undressed one, Do now as I bid you, climb The shelf-like branches of the spruce tree; Wait at the top, attentive, like A sentry or look-out. He will be home
Love Poem
There is always something to be made of pain. Your mother knits. She turns out scarves in every shade of red. They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm While she married over
The Triumph Of Achilles
In the story of Patroclus No one survives, not even Achilles Who was nearly a god. Patroclus resembled him; they wore The same armor. Always in these friendships One serves the other, one is
Lullaby
My mother’s an expert in one thing: Sending people she loves into the other world. The little ones, the babies these She rocks, whispering or singing quietly. I can’t say What she did for