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Poetry

Song of the Song

March 2, 2020

I wish we were living
a story of desire, but
I don’t feel Odysseus 
beating out his tale
of longing at the oars

The Gargantuan Arm

March 2, 2020

Let us remember liberty was not popular,
six years it took Laboulaye to convince
Bartholdi a gigantic statue was 
what New York harbor needed. Eleven
years later

Pink

March 2, 2020

Pink is the Tuscan sunset. Pink
Are the Vietnamese monk pates
Bobbing under Piero’s True Cross.
Pink is plenty, pink is joy.

Mothers

March 2, 2020

Women used to wean their babies
By painting their breasts black.
Hurricane clouds are black.
The Earth is weaning us.

Tonsure

March 2, 2020

Forever you find

              your father
in other faces—

a balding head
              or beard enough
to send you following

Dog Star

March 2, 2020

 Take today. I want there

            to be less
of everything—wind

& worry, of leaves
            littering the ground
& love letters, addressee

Boneyard

March 2, 2020

Like heat he seeks them,
            my son, thirsting 
to learn those

he don’t know
            are his dead—
some with his name

Pegasus

March 2, 2020

Before I leave for good, I lift the pie server a final 
time, drop the receipt facedown next to the lemon 
blueberry slice, then my apron in the parking lot

Junker

March 2, 2020

That one smelled 
like a Bradford pear 
you said. 

Ars Poetica

March 2, 2020

Cutting down Chambers St. 

my pinky toenail comes clean off.

Another little ghost 

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