Today, February 11, marks the death-date of the brilliant poet, Sylvia Plath. A tribute piece, from my collection Arclight. To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. … Continue reading
At times, the savvy and elaborate architecture of words, the stunning and complex tapestry of language, its magisterial tunings to sound, is, in its beggared haunt and infancy, rooted in the unscabbed core of a pinking utterance, a single quiver … Continue reading
We were walking scarside, had been for a long time. The wind sounded like fading bells, the air smelled of singed salt. I asked her how her heart was holding up. Good, she smiled, it’s floating jellyfishlike in a pool … Continue reading
Garden caked in snow, single charmed rose, metaphor to give hope its due.
A father’s pocket, containing secret petals— the meaning of love.
There is a stunning and original reciprocity that takes place when two people are moved to dance while holding hands with only air beneath their feet.
It’s tough to always be in love with a ghost. Also it’s easy. The living don’t stand a chance against ghosts. In loving ghosts there are no real complications, no real disappointments, no real anything. There’s lots of teething on … Continue reading
Except from No Man’s Brooklyn: I see her rising off the bathroom tiles, toes pointing downward. I know this is a dream but I also know this actually happened, once, a long time ago. Except then Anya … Continue reading
I could feel the music of a slow future dying inside me. And the past very much alive, like shimmering beatific flowers, like luscious night-thistles. The past is a changeable feast. Except it is a feast that eats and eats … Continue reading
I tell myself stories in the dark, Anya. It helps. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it makes things worse. Or keeps everything the same. Which is a different kind of worse. Anya I long to reach you only because I … Continue reading