Particle, Little Part

poetry
  She ran to the forest like the women before her, and like them, she turned into a tree that the gods gave her name, a way to honor a…

the day the tumor began (2)

poetry
  a guinea pig, running loose in the grocery store, refugee from the pet shop next door. Word of the escape traveled more swiftly than the rodent did, and she…

the day the tumor began (1)

poetry
  she rose early to swim. Laps, in the indoor public pool, an hour before the sun reared up. She reveled in a morning layered with contrast: cool air on…

Endorphins

poetry
  On the fourth day, I was standing in the front yard stretching after a run (I don’t run), slightly high on endorphins. I could suddenly see everything O the…

I Ask the Questions Around Here

poetry
  I ask my students, What’s at stake in this poem? I ask my daughters, Did you do your schoolwork? I ask my husband, Did you remember to cover the…

Against Cultivar

poetry
  —after Philip Lawson (1859-1936) The chicken proves accurate in its back and forth: the way I traveled up from Virginia backward on boat, rail, and foot— never acting on…

A Fog

poetry
  I have been moving in and out of one. Every few hours, I hold my hand up to my face. If I can see the hand, I move towards…

To Get to the Other Side

poetry
  Do you ever feel like an alien? I ask Cliff. He’s arranging my body on the radiation table. Usually I apologize for my muddy boots, but today I'm feeling…

Dominion

poetry
  Sea levels rise and we regret our skins, how they blister as much from cold as from heat. As if the point is mediocrity— that soft, shifting middle ground.…

Residual Storm Surge

poetry
  Knee-deep in floodwater, I consider the rats. Not the live ones that fight in the alley each night, each entitled to its chicken bone prize, but the poisoned ones…

What Knowing You Teaches Me

poetry
  —owes a debt to Anne Sexton’s “Just Once” Once a day, I see a flash of white-patched feathers, hear a cable wire mockingbird teach itself a new tune, and…

Confessional Poetry

poetry
  —after Louis Simpson’s “American Poetry” What this is, must be open-dark, petunias rubbing against one another. What I contain, body knowing the movement of this verse, and the next…