Poet, you mama’s girl, so bad at volleyball, first dates, job interviews, your
albatross of asymmetry flung floorward like an eloquent glove, ironic as that yellow
pedestrian yield sign on Chestnut Street, permanently pavement-flattened.
“On the Way to Conception” and “Different Folks”
My parents loved each other but it’s unlikely no one was harmed
on the long, broad path to my conception, and as for fidelity,
my mitochondrial DNA is British all the way to the damsel
du chambre of Queen Philippa, born in Tonbridge Castle,
mother unknown, fathered by Edward’s ambidextrous favorite.
“Chicago (After Ginsberg),” “When You Spot Your Flower” and “The Spring-Bringer”
Chicago I fell in love with you at first sight in May 1975.
I wore that green dress and you wore the Lake.
You were the Big Man in the Midwest.
I was 15, you were 138.
I gave you the best years of my life when I thought you had given them to me.
“It’s October,” “Professin’” and “Fitting In”
and, just back from the Farmer’s Market, the last of the year, I’m wearing a summer sweatshirt the amber and aubergine of falling leaves. The cats mill expectantly, for what I know not.
Read more.The Rules of Improv
Lainie emerged from her shock, lying on her side in the driveway surrounded by a black wreath of cleft-chinned superheroes in boots and helmets. She noted the gravel in her hair before wincing at the tenderness of two small broken bones in her left hand, various bruised ribs, and shrapnel-inflicted gash above her ankle.
It was a mistake any mortal could make, exploding her gas grill by forgetting to open the lid before turning on the gas.