O

By PETER FILKINS

As the deaf-mute grocery clerk

puckers curious to a chorus “O”

to ask what kind of mushrooms

he should be ringing up, I think

 

of Ortiz and last night’s double

sailing like a lit-up vowel

toward the bleachers in center-left,

the outfielder unsure if it might

 

carry The Monster or carom off

when, in fact, it hits the warning

track, goes dead, toppling the fielder

 

painfully into the dirt, Ortiz

on second, me mouthing “oyster”

to the reaches of the Mystic Big Y.

Peter Filkins is a poet and translator who teaches at Bard College at Simon’s Rock. His books include After Homer and The View We’re Granted.
Julia PikeO

Related Posts

Shadow on grass

Poetry by Iraqi Women in Translation

NADIA AL-KATIB
"Definitions"
My heart is a pear
your pocket can’t contain—
my heart is poorly
stored. It starts to rot.
My story? I’m a girl
tempted into
a wonderland.

poetry and democracy

April 2019 Poetry Feature: Jessica Lanay

JESSICA LANAY
We dampened the cool white sheets
throwing each other, knowing
we are both liars; we didn’t get
what we wanted: me—a chest
to shelter me for the night; you—
some reassurance that you had any
power at all in the world.
We awoke and love abandoned

Midwest city

Philosophical Flowers

RICHIE HOFMANN
The streets are named for German poets /  in my huge provincial Midwestern city. / Dust whirls up from the tires of passing cars, / lifting a veil over me, like Romantic longing. On Goethe, I want nothing / more than to reach down and feel a lover’s big skull