The First Elegy

poetry
  During naptime, I try reading Rilke. Then I remember Rilke left his wife                               and baby daughter to study with Rodin in Paris. Now I can’t take him seriously when…

AI Lullaby

poetry
  We’ll need to use voice learning first, of course. We’re still in the developmental stage, but you can sign up for our mailing list. Picture this: your kid drifts…

Dead Man

poetry
  I am a dead man. My dreams are in another language. I say love to my wife and children in the language of those who dropped bombs On my…

The Empty Page

poetry
  She looks up and asks, “Have you eaten bai yet?” As if by magic, my stomach growls and my lips wet with appetite. In this place where memories are…

Introduction to Romantic Literature

poetry
  1. The artist stands alone. He sees the great beyond. Driven by sea, by fire, he resists all there is to resist. He stands at the mountain’s cliff. Hair…

Living Sage

poetry
  Probably can’t handle a potted plant right now because the cat has stopped eating again, this time for two days. Trying to really be present as she shrinks, or…

Northeast Corridor

poetry
  Up and over the bridge on the tracks, Jersey towns are hurling by like a flipbook. At the baseball game everyone is carrying their buckets of chicken down the…

Sonnet for My Psychiatrist

poetry
  Nothing good blooms in high heat, so she hands me the slip. I’ve stretched into pigeon, swallowed the sertraline, bupropion. Remember, as a child out in the garden, turning…

choice

poetry
  still holding the Jell-O starfish shedding its arms as you try to cradle & rock it you sit at a Formica table chipped        harshly lit according…

in the canyon

poetry
  after Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey be silent in the silence a great stillness broken only by birds reek of burnt juniper on stone glare of sun drawn down…

Witness

poetry
  The Matsutake mushroom grows only in places where all else has been destroyed. It is the first to appear after the whitened violence that has left no survivors. In…

The Dead

poetry
  Always, driving along the broken roads in Nebraska I see the animals, bodies blurred along the yellow centered divider—tufted fur and fractured bone ground into black asphalt; blood opened…