The poetry of earth is a ninety-year-old woman
in front of a slot machine in a casino in California.
She is wearing a gray dress, her sharp red lipstick
in two lines across her mouth, put there
While I mince an onion, he talks with her,
planning their son’s bar mitzvah, sounding
so familiar, so nuts and bolts. Turning up the gas flame,
I sauté the onion translucent. Butter sizzles, foams,
as they go over the invitation list, names I’ve never heard.
Jane O. Wayne – Toward Repose
Given a choice wouldn’t it be
rain streaming down
a car window, morning mist
———–gliding over streets and houses?
Mark Wagenaar – They Ate the Bulbs of Tulips
I’d have to hear it spoken in mind somehow,
my father said, of the Frisian word for hunger,
but I’d settle for memory, or grief, under
the category things that undo me. It’s a funny
thing to think. Who would be the speaker
if not him? His mother, maybe,