Good Bones (from Waxwing, now available as a signed broadside)*
*Close reading of Good Bones by the poet Sandra Beasley
Good Bones & The Mother, Italian translations by Alessandra Bava (from Patria Letteratura)
Small Shoes (from Rise Up Review; reprinted in the New York Times)
Six Poems (from Numero Cinq)
New Year Sestina (from The Los Angeles Review)
Goldenrod (from Southern Indiana Review & Verse Daily)
Rain, New Year’s Eve (from Southern Indiana Review & Verse Daily)
Rasp (from the Academy of American Poets’ poem-a-day; with audio)
Heart (from Tinderbox)
Lula (from Tinderbox)
Tenor (from TriQuarterly; with audio)
Panel Van (from Sugar House Review; with audio)
Lacrimae (from Wildness)
The Mother (from Waxwing)
Poem with a Line from Bluets (from Waxwing)
At your age I wore a darkness (from Nashville Review)
Illustration (from Nashville Review)
Where Honey Comes From (from Virginia Quarterly Review)
Cloud Study (from the Georgia Review)
Let’s Not Begin (from Guernica; with audio)
You Could Never Take a Car to Greenland (from The Southern Review; with audio)
Stitches (from Linebreak; with audio, read by Emily Rose Cole)
Harrowing (from burntdistrict)
Your Tongue (from Memorious)
Home-Free (from Stirring)
Invincible (from Pangyrus)
Hymn (from Hound)
Reading the Train Book, I Think of Lisa (from the Kenyon Review Online; with audio)
Stonefish (from The Account)
Three poems (from Thrush)
Three poems (from diode)
Midwife (from Virginia Quarterly Review)
The Hawk-Kite (from Virginia Quarterly Review)
Four Poems (from Tupelo Quarterly)
Two Poems (from Shenandoah)
Two Poems (from diode)
Three Poems (from Sweet)
When Worlds Collide (1951) (from West Branch/Verse Daily)
Hush Now (from Failbetter)
The Fortune Teller to the Woodsman (from Failbetter)
Manic Panic (from Failbetter/Best of the Net)
Seven Disappointments (2) (from Blackbird)
Suspension (from Failbetter)
I Dream a Highway (from Failbetter)
Two Poems (from Beloit Poetry Journal)
The Poem Speaks to Danger (from Phoebe)
Two Poems (from Poem of the Week)
Lamp of the Body
It’s the 50s. You wear your dark Levis
cuffed up six inches. You have a cowlick.
There is a birthday party you won’t attend
after a bad haircut. Your mother says,
Button, it’s not the end of the world.
But the weathervane says, Button,
the end is near. It says the sky’s gone
yellow with twisters. Small white stars
are invisible all day, but you hear them
chatter like teeth. Button, they say, why
not play with the others? Look at them,
having a fine time. But you wish the devil
on the neighbors. You wish them nothing
to pin the tail on. You wish the children
snatched up in the funnel, paper punch
cups still in their hands. The devil won’t
call you Button. He says if you must
be haunted, at least be unashamed.
(“Button” originally appeared in The Iowa Review)
Once, while a man sped me down
a back road in a gray pickup,
I memorized my younger face
in the passenger side mirror,
burned the opal at my throat
and the white secondhand blouse—
tiny lilacs, puckered sleeves—
into the undersides of my eyelids.
My hair streamed
the color of hay out the window.
Lettering on the mirror told me
that despite how close
I appeared, I may have been closer.
Something lit the opal’s pink fires
nearer the surface than I knew.
Things were not what they seemed.
There was nothing I could reach
out and touch. We parked
in a cloud of gravel dust. I hurled rocks
into the quarry’s dark mouth,
bible black, and lied
about hearing them hit bottom.
Inside every stillness, I believed
(“Trompe l’Oeil” originally appeared in The Florida Review)
I was tired of the smoke
and mirrors. The loaves, the fish,
but not nearly enough time.
What could I say to him, friend
I buried, when he woke and called to me
softly from the shadows?
Go now. The business of faith
bores me. I could take it or leave it.
Understand, I touched his wounds
because I wanted to feel
his warmth on my own hands.
If I doubted anything then,
it was humanity. Disillusionment
is what happens when men
dabble in magic. Celebrity is a tree
on fire and of the thousands
standing near, none is near enough
to lick the flames from your face.
Once the embers burning
above us were enough. I believe
he doubled back from death
to breathe home’s balmy air,
to stand in light among us
one last time beneath the high
heavens. For this brotherhood
I lose a brother; I spit upon the lot
we’ve drawn. So much for twilight
spent floating on the river, talking
of women we were not to love,
and of their skin scrubbed sweet
as tangerines. So much for nights
we passed in the desert, drunk
under the young stars whose names
were new. Once my friend
agreed: No one could recognize
each luminous body across
this broadening, eternal cleft.
(“Doubting Thomas” originally appeared in Poetry Northwest)
The Well Speaks of Its Own Poison
En la tierra del olvido, donde de nada nadie se acuerda…
In the land where all is forgotten, where no one remembers anything,
birds cut off their beaks to share your sorrow, Little Torn Shoe.
Twice of half a moon throbbed, swollen. I don’t know what
you mourned. This tale was lost among the chestnut trees,
where I found it and brought it to you. Little Bird of Many Colors,
you are the kind who confuses wondering with wandering.
You wonder around. Under your braids, a bright light.
Little Pink Apple, life does not taste as good as it should.
After all, there is always something better. We choose the best
of what is before us, but much is not before us. In the story,
a boy chose the horse called Thought over the one called Wind.
Thinking swiftly, he rode to you. His sack of apples turned
to a sack of rats; his sack of pears to parrots repeating
happy, happy, happy … Little Gold Pin, many things we tell
our children are kind but not true. The reverse is also true.
You were crying in the chestnut trees. There was no telling
the leaves from the leaf-shaped spaces between them.
I don’t know what you mourned, Little Winter Deer, the birds
mute and bleeding all around you. I know you want to forget
that last part. And here a cup got broken. Everyone should now go home.
(“Apologue (1)” originally appeared in The Massachusetts Review)
The List of Dangers
The black windows looked out onto the black lawn.
No one except the three daughters checked off
the list of dangers. It was like when the wolf ate
chalk to soften his voice, but the white goats
knew him by his black paws. They filled his gut
with stones and led him to water so black, it erased
itself from photographs. No one except the three
knew of hidden rooms in the forsythia, a brittle nest
for curling into when the neighbor boys chased them
through the yards. It was not a list of dangers,
but fears. Their father said they had to leave.
There would be no more safe enclosures.
No door of yellow, star-shaped flowers.
There were black boys in the city. They would be
waiting when the girls stepped off the school bus.
White flight, thought the daughters, as they fled
down a corridor of blossoming pear trees. A child
crossing the street repeated, Red hand changes
to white man walking. The sun was a saw blade,
a yellow circle with teeth. Terrible birds with plumage
of fire scorched whatever they touched: The black
mailbox opened its mouth to the black street.
The daughters checked them off. It was more than a list.
Each X clicked like a typewriter key, imprinting the sleep
of those who still slept. Nothing stays good for long—
not the new neighborhood with its wrist full of charms,
not the last tier of wedding cake in the icebox, white
and glittering like a glacier. No one was preserved,
an heirloom apple. Not even the three daughters
would taste exactly as girls did hundreds of years ago.
(“The List of Dangers” originally appeared in The Florida Review)
It’s an installation: Wrens pinned like brooches
to the trees, singing, their eyes glass beads.
Shake a branch, be wary of what falls.
In the unofficial spring, sunshine plays xylophone
on the lawn. The trebly notes are mouths
singing oh, oh, oh. A paper boat leads
the children downstream, through countless
shades of green—spring, grass, moss, forest.
Light plus one green makes another.
The exhibit rotates seasonally. Soon enough
the children will instead be foxes, the greens
will rust. Someone will strike the wren set.
But for now their songs saturate the air.
If the message is urgent, they’ll tell again tomorrow.
(“Wren Songs” originally appeared in The List of Dangers)
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
Let’s Not Begin
Let’s not begin the poem with and,
though it begins that way
in spirit: one in a long list of—
let’s not call them grievances.
I’m trying to love the world,
I am, but is it too much
to ask for two parts bees
vibrating their cups of pollen,
humming a perfect A note,
to one part sting?
Worry and console, worry
and console: it’s how I stay
in shape. See, I’m sweating.
Some nights my daughter cries,
I don’t want to be in the dirt,
and this is what I call a workout.
My heart’s galloping hell
and gone from the paddock—
I don’t want to be in the dirt
because I’ll miss you—
and there’s no stopping me.
But let’s not end
with the heart as horse,
fear-lathered, spooked deaf.
I’m trying, I am, for her.
If I list everything I love
about the world, and if the list
is long and heavy enough,
I can lift it over and over—
repetitions, they’re called, reps—
to keep my heart on, to keep
the dirt off. Let’s begin
with bees, and the hum,
and the honey singing
on my tongue, and the child
sleeping at last, and, and, and—
A child of, say, six knows you’re not the shape
she’s learned to make by drawing half along a fold,
cutting, then opening. Where do you open?
Where do you carry your dead? There’s no locket
for that—hinged, hanging on a chain that greens
your throat. And the dead inside you, don’t you
hear them breathing? You must have a hole
they can press their gray lips to. If you open—
when you open—will we find them folded inside?
In what shape? I mean what cut shape is made
whole by opening? I mean besides the heart.