#AmericanWriters
The great bed of the world arching over graves over Babi Yar with its multitude of bones, with battalions of screams
The women he has had are all faces without eyes. He has entered them blind as a cut worm. He has swum their oceans
My love is too much– it embarrasses you– blood, poems, babies, red needs that telephone from foreign countries,
What is the central passion of a life? To please mummy & daddy? To find a home for their furniture… To found a family of one’s own,
In Autumn, as in Spring, the sap flows, the sap wishes to race against heartbeats
For Naomi Lazard Sometimes I can’t wait until I… —Naomi Lazard My friends are tired. The ones who are married are tired
I am not interested in my body– the part that stinks & rots & brings forth life,
The lessons we learned here (fumbling with our lunchbags, handkerchiefs & secret cheeks of bubblegum) were graver than any
Already six years past your age! The steps in Rome, the house near Hampstead Heath, & all your fears that you might cease to be
At the furthermost reach of the se… where Atlantis sinks under the wak… I have come to heal my life. I knit together like a broken arm. The salt fills the crevices of bon…
Kabir says the breath inside the breath is God & I say to Kabir you are the breath inside that bre…
Unable to bear the uncertainty of the future, we consulted seers, mediums, stock market gurus,
Regret is the young girl who sits… & stares at her hands. They are bluer than shadows in sno… They are bloodless as fear. Her fingernail moons are white.
I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke)
Sometimes the poem doesn’t want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run