Poetry

Among tall silver birches. Dogs yipping 
beyond the timberline. 
In my bag, a clementine for us to split. 
The river’s image trembles as you dip 
your foot in, raking the pebbles back and forth 
till silt rises to the surface.

Bay-facing scarps to the east 
bound beds of yellow-orange 
sand and sedge. And broken mollusk valves

Who knows how many of us 
                                                  you’ve killed, dead set 
on what flows beneath, your mouth

At thirty, I am a child again learning
banana, apple, and orange,
clasping words and fumbling my meanings.

Driving in the American West, reading Celan
and the Mahabharata. After the war,
Arjuna drops the bow forged by Brahma back
into the ocean, relinquishing it

Night’s endlessness taps at the mind,
my jet lag a constant drip down the windows.
Because I am here for a month, a girl returned
to her mother, I let myself go soft

What about the man who cannot touch 
anyone without them morphing 
into the only woman he loved and lost? Not recklessly,
but like a river diverted by a stone’s weight, 

Nothing can stop the dogs
from barking, not even

the moon’s new dress.
 

To win a free mattress, lovers must sleep 
hidden and apart behind a wall to discern 
each other by the cadence of their breath.