It may be Lord our voice is suited now only for irony, onslaught, and the minor hierarchies of rage. It may be that only the crudest, cruelest transformations touch us, gauzewalkers in the hallways of a burn ward. I remember a blind man miraculous for the sounds of his mouth, every bird rehearsed
My high school bully committed suicide. I felt relief before I felt guilty. His ghost still bullying me. Wish I could go back and do something Say something But even with hindsight I still don’t know what I would say And part of me doesn’t want to save him anyway.
My lost sister used to try the trick with the tablecloth, waiting until the wine had been poured, the gravy boat filled, before snapping the linen her way smug as a matador, staring down silver and crystal that would dare move, paying no mind to the ancestor gloom gliding across the wallpaper like clouds
My favorite is the cream puff lie, the kind inflated with hot air, expanded to make an heroic-sized story. Another is the cannoli, a long lie, well-packed with nutty details, lightly wrapped in flakey truth. A macaroon isn’t a little white lie, but it’s covered with self-serving coconut. The apple tart carries slices of
You hear the high-pitched yowls of strays fighting for scraps tossed from a kitchen window. They sound like children you might have had. Had you wanted children. Had you a maternal bone, you would wrench it from your belly and fling it from your fire escape. As if it were the stubborn shard now lodged
Now should great men die in turn one by one to keep the mind solemn and ordained, the living attend in dark clothes and with tender weariness and crowds at television sets and newsstands wait as each man’s death sustains a peace. The great gone, the people one by one offer to die. This
Oh, I said, this is going to be. And it was. Oh, I said, this will never happen. But it did. And a purple fog descended upon the land. The roots of trees curled up. The world was divided into two countries. Every photograph taken in the first was of people. Every photograph taken in
Give to Caesar what is his, namely, everything there is. I see a lot of eyebrows raised. Let’s check the books. You’ll be amazed. An x. An o. A hug and kiss. Render unto Caesar this. Render unto Caesar that. His the dog, his the cat. Render up your reading time. Render, too, your reverie.
So often artists have painted a woman washing, or combing her hair. And nearby is a mirror. And there you were, crouched in the tub. It was cold in the apartment. It is always cold in winter. But you were brushing out your hair and singing to yourself. And, for a moment, I think I
The sorrow of true love is a great sorrow And true love parting blackens a bright morrow: Yet almost they equal joys, since their despair Is but hope blinded by its tears, and clear Above the storm the heavens wait to be seen. But greater sorrow from less love has been That can mistake lack
