Poetry

Don’t Cry, Dear Mother Don’t cry, dear mother, that a young son Will ride to defend your home. When he stands tall, an oak in the sun, He’ll wait for Judgement Day to come. So don’t wring your hands like the wind, Which rings the branches of trees. You’ll have more sons, but a homeland […]

Earthworm Satsanga it is said that we owe a debt of gratitude to worms for the beauty of all vegetation and the harvest it brings us – quoted from the press – while looking up the definition of satsanga in dictionaries and wikipedia on my phone and youtube i suddenly remembered my earthworms – how

Warsaw A green pond In the park that Resembles a graveyard A fish might appear And it does We need light Sun is out We’re looking For the most direct route Massive posters and flags Tell us to go Crosses crosses crosses crosses In the square a couple of tin soldiers Melting near the eternal

*** when taking the bus i must remind the driver to drop me off each time he asks me what i’m doing halfway up the road the same as you, mr. driver in that bus shaped like a stale loaf of bread i will observe how yeast fills the days with pockets of dense air

sickly intoxicating rhythms of a clinic as the rain settles down outside it turns out it’s possible to feel cozy while waiting for a vaccination the guy next to me has a rose tattooed on his arm about which everything has already been said you just have to remember it we are standing in line

*** close your eyes for a moment! orderlies rush forward and silver bugles shine in their hands     *** The crowd was laughing, mad, and joyous – The savior’s ship, surrounded by sirens, emerged from the mists, It draws near as the crowd becomes silent, whispering angrily – Sindbad has brought a new illness

Academic Drawing Remember how that happened in our drawing class? We don’t greet the teacher anymore, even though his dog was beautiful. It was a boycott from both sides. In front of the scribbled walls we conspired, sitting on the windowsills, gazing across the street toward the exhibition hall – people live out there while we sweat

How I Gazed at My Grandmother’s Hands   Hands are inherited with the clay of garden beds under the nails, with swollen hillocks of joints, with invisible foundations sinking under the years, growing moldy in jars of cherry preserves Hands are inherited with a conductor’s muscle memory, inferred from the grace of palms, as if

New Moon what else can I learn from the botanical books of memory except how to forge a ring mount of first frost for the gleaming stone of a plum maybe I can also learn about white peony ceramics glazed by ants in the heat of the sun how fading light from the bowl of

I Paid with Lilac Leaves   For the five minutes I stopped my ears On the other side of the house While my father and neighbor Slaughtered the incarnadine pig by the pen On the squealing snow. For the stubble field, for the pointed moon, Waking from one dream To another, For the rusty nail