For a Mourner
If I’m in the right frame of mind, I can still picture the old Whitechapel. Back then, there were no sleek walkways as there are now, and the current, chic, steel arches were made of sandstone brick, darkened by soot and grime. My father lived in the area from when I was seventeen to twenty-four,
As you lay dying, in a language I barely knew
As you lay dying, you coughed up worm-strings of words in a language I barely knew. Smooth platefuls of sound, slipping like the silver-butter of moonlight on a pond. Ephemeral. If I cannot conjugate (I cannot) – I die, you die, she would die, too, – how can I feel the rough edges of [&he
Post-Mortem of a Fallow Field
I dreamt of home last night. Your eyes were green – a cut of lime against the tongue – they startled me like birds start at the sheep-herds bawling. You had warned of something mystic, pearl chowders, purple dusks – you had said:
The Bees
Poetry: “The bees are going down, you know, it’s a well known fact / statistically but also purely / anecdotally, because the ground is suddenly / pebbled with the dead little things.”
