To settle while trying to say what cannot be said
precisely. As in. We were not entirely finished.
So. Love. To travel the slick road we scattered with salt. To try
to leave our sweepings under the rug. Moments To Define 10.28.2019
“It has a god structure. I think it will resist a long time.”
—Customer review of the Uniqlo Beauty Light bra, $19.99
O keep me up, keep me going. Keep it together. Smooth me. Reduce
excess movement. There is a heaviness. There is around me a
God Structure. It helps me organize my thoughts. It has laid out
plans, I think, for various eventualities, and the existence of plans, The God Structure 10.28.2019
All summer, I sit on the porch, my son appearing, disappearing. Walls of rain or night, of larkspur, bleeding heart. The stone floor long ago lifted from the lion’s den.
Translator’s note: Having children is a way of remaking oneself. A Kind of Privileged Existence That Sets It Apart From Other Worlds 10.28.2019
I knew I should have told her / we’d been traveling a few hours
she hated the interstates / back routes took us through weird
towns / she liked the fields this way and up close
they come up with tassels swaying gold-beamed wind-socks / in their way
their green so bright you’d think / the whole field a fruit ripe
enough to bite into / and the clouds so perfect and numerous and floating
like a fleet of wish and cool whip / something for the angels to rest on
she would say / and mean it as the towns came upon us like unwrapped
trinkets with a single grocer / and at least one saloon
no matter the dry Sunday / the kind of places men hung
around smoking with one / inevitable woman weathered
as a mailbox / leaning into the side of the building Day-Trip with Missing Binky 10.28.2019
Praise this Saturday which permits me to wash with my hands (I detest this).
Praise my dirty clothes, the ones I leave for my grandmother who starts the cycle with cold soapy water.
Praise the rinse, the rush upstairs to the open roof. There, the clouds open as I hang and hide my American jeans from my neighbors who don’t even trust the wooden pins to work.
Saturdays, Like This 10.28.2019
By VALERIE DUFF
Keep that smile
barbed, the wire
the horse leans against.
Birds crack seeds
on the other side of your glass
door. The body, blind, curves Lace Curtain You Drape Over Every Mirror 10.28.2019
“Portrait of a Man,” ca. 1470. Hans Memling (ca. 1430-1494). The Frick Collection.
Hans Memling, ca. 1470 (Frick Collection)
I know this man,
or feel I do,
or think I could—
as though his face
effaced the centuries
between us, Portrait of a Man 10.28.2019
for Betty Shabazz
Who, when they killed her husband, was carrying
twin girls—not in her arms, but in an armless
sea, with bits of blood as food. She covered Burying Seeds 10.28.2019
Now, the Grundig in this dealer’s window screaming,
the silent oval speaker like a Munch,
and I hear it on a Sunday as I best recall: Console 10.28.2019
The flats mid-morning.
Fussy little house-hunting hermit crabs.
Razor clams, skate eggs, black mussels.
Sea glass frosted by the tides. Walking Barefoot, August 10.28.2019