Giotto Blue

poetry
The faces in Giotto’s Massacre of the Innocents in Scrovengi Chapel, must have been what the faces of mothers in Sarajevo looked like after a massacre during the Siege. They…

Yellow Door in Open Field

poetry
The door in the field is held upright by my saying so. Frogs before storm, wind on the rise. The door opens and I still can’t see what lies on…

Memento Park, Hungary

poetry
On the Buda side the gypsies have no one left to steal from. They burn trash at night, sending yellow smoke into the subway. They leave handprints on the tiled…

Gołąbki

poetry
1979 which the aunts pronounced gowumkee you know cabbage rolls honey and packed into a crockpot pasted all over with pictures of happy brown daisies and then balanced them on…

Finding My Way

poetry
I want to find the way of the ants, how they build dirt mounds out of human flesh, how they destroy and then carry the little corpses of leaves and…

Mal de Ojo

poetry
Toward evening When I grow bored I try to imagine my killer     —“Toward Evening,” Novica Tadić The evil eye was born at the same time as light. Let there be…

The Stableboy

poetry
The stableboy leads, drives on the chestnut horse. Tears form in the tear ducts of the horse’s eye. In the silent swamp the dry reeds clatter like a pilgrim’s staff.…

It’s Autumn

poetry
“It’s autumn,” I write, and a boat without sails arhythmically scrapes at my heart— as long as it can. All the cards have been played, and the hand-made rock fountains,…

Planting

poetry
The word ‘bloom’ is a grenade. Pull out the L-pin, and boom.   The dandelion turns into a piñata, confetti blizzard; exploding   is an efficient way to start pollinating.…

Down the Hill

poetry
Tesla runs away to a high onion-dome chapel     entombing him the night. It is off-season for wobbling pilgrims, affording the child his very own necessity     of dread. Fleeing— the point…

Starling?

poetry
I preferred their 5 am chirps in the rafters to my roommate’s sex groans. But what a lazy renter I was, never climbing the attic for a sight or paging…

Last Year

poetry
I sometimes see a fox from my window: brush of brown, echo of red by the woods— more a suggestion of a fox, shadow of movement. Just when I think…