Poems of the Week


A Labor of Moles

My tongue remembers
when I first
tasted dirt

and knew the thing
was no longer
to see myself

but furiously
to dig.


Excuse me, I said.
my room is on fire.
I’d been watching
the flame a long time.

A nervous little dog
sniffing the wall
until it found a spot
where it dug and grew.

The spark turned mean
and I turned cold.
I went down into slippers
to a table of trouble,

the family dinner
I wasn’t having.
this time I smiled
while they ignored me.

Excuse me, I said,
and bit hard
into the rage
of no one listening

then took my slippers
out into the snow.

The Metaphysics of Being Well-Mannered

The way you eat pizza—
fork and knife,
cloth napkin,

making careful cuts
in the direction
of all four winds—

is black tie in the desert,
a blizzard lit by candles.
The way you eat pizza

a lullaby among jackals,
prolegomenon to peace—
the night’s hunger call

suddenly so hushed
in admiration
of the way you eat pizza,

cicadas forget to stutter
and the moon’s thirst
is well-said.

*all from What the Right Hand Knows, Four Way Books, 2009.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: