I Brought Mountains with Me to Iowa

but only I could see them.
Others saw a bank of clouds
on the horizon, potential rain. I saw
the Cascade Range,
my mother’s face
face toward them, lit
by their snow light,
and her mother’s face
who had to learn to love them
after years of living flat.
Did she imagine, on some foggy days,
there was nothing taller out there
than the dike she knew in Friesland,
and the waves the dike held …

More In: Poetry

In Praise of the 30-Week Ultrasound

A wholeness moves within all half-seen things,
a certain gravity when pigeons call
beyond the eye’s periphery, and rainfall pings
against the windows of the hospital.
We see a face …

What to Donate

Clothes in cuts of shirts, pants, coats, jackets, sweaters, blouses, nightgowns and robes. Not
underwear or bras – throw these out. There’s too much of her in them to give …

Can’t Tell You Much

In the frozen aisle’s uniform glare
a tall boy stares. Not through the glass
doors at tubs of ice cream or the stacked
pizzas in cardboard. Through the air
ahead, …

Aubade

In golden underbrush and old growth, the wood-borer
opens timber to light. The bracken thorns itself against the sky.
By the time I wake to branches falling against the roof,

Go Figure

In her and her and her I saw myself:
in carved sandstone, a voluptuary,
her neck coiled to face her back, her back
twisted to pinch and raise for inspection