Poetry
The moon alert in the sky,tomorrow like an arm
waving, I love to go outlate in the evening, stand beside
the huge barn, ricketyover its rusty machinery.
You wonder why I’m at the pianoin the middle of the morning when I should beworking, but last night my mother—yes,I know she’s long dead—last night my motherlurked again in the brooding forest of
My best friend’s grandmothersurvived the holocaust.Lived in a tiny roomoff of the kitchenate like a birdyet wanted to be near food.Others in the houseslept in huge bedrooms
I like the grey and woody wayNovember leaves a filigree of treesstripped and spareuntidy tatters at their feet Let it go
For his sixty-sixth birthdaythe nurse brought my father spice cakeI don’t know whether he couldeat it himself or she fed him aspart of her duties.He said, “That’s about asspecial as it gets in here”
Coming back always went fast.We fell asleep on the rear seatin happy tangle and were homebefore we wished it.My father carried usto our beds, my youngerbrothers limp and soft,easily moved.
Draw a line to five, when Frank Bitsueis hauling water from the well then counthis living grandchildren and divide themby the ones who chased sheep into the rain.Subract the crash. Add summers and sleep of
I guess you didn't get my letter, since youdied before I put it in the mail.But maybe that's OK—I mean, whatwas left to say anyway? Confession (I neverenjoyed hunting, or peeing in public)?
In cold darkness calling from tree to treeLaughing at our foolish dreamsCrooning love in a long lost keyFeathers at once oil slick and tricksterSwitchblade beaks
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