To be a traitor is to trade—
Take, for example, the blue macaw
of my childhood, traded ...
February is checking my e-mail
while waiting at the drive-thru
dry cleaners to pick up my husband’s ...
Cooked, the socks, the pantry stocked,
Thanksgiving dinner for twenty.
Crab apples around the turkey on a platter I’d serve
Modeled from a photograph.
I was modeled on a photograph.
Clean floor, it was perfect.
One exact book on the table, dust it. ...
Imagine a novel about a man who
never knew his early years; it comes across as
a fictionalized story that nevertheless feels overwhelming
in the rich particularity of his life, and its
equally rich loneliness, as he struggles to live it.
Or perhaps it’s about a fictionalized man
with a lost past that was real, utterly real,
and his growing up is the story ...
but only I could see them.
Others saw a bank of clouds
on the horizon, potential rain. I saw ...
A wholeness moves within all half-seen things,
a certain gravity when pigeons call
beyond the eye’s periphery, and rainfall ...
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, toward the checkout registers,
but I’m sure it’s nothing there, not the movie/ magazines, racks of chocolate bars, dyed/ carnation bouquets. I’d say he looks/ amazed by a scene in the near future.
Come to a standstill as if he means/ to keep what distance he can between/ himself and his premonition, he’s focused ...
In golden underbrush and old growth, the wood-borer/ opens timber to light. The bracken thorns ...
San Marcos, Texas
Around noon the sheriff pulled up at my aunt’s house./ My cousins had been ...