I walked through the walls of the Louvre
and noticed the Hall of Sculptures was still
asleep. I tiptoed in and took a deep breath.
As I exhaled slowly, a springtime breeze,
Winged Victory of Samothrace shook
out her wings. Her marble gown,
“American Migrant”, “Inside the Wall” and “Soccer Revolution”
“You came here and took the jobs our fathers built for us.”
We exploit our talents in the fertile fields, in the
shadows of portable toilets, in asparagus rows retching,
wrapping ripped rags around numb fingers for
a nightshift at the Blue Smoke Slaughterhouse.
“The Reckoning”, “Three poems working against my smile” and “Home”
We want fires that burn. Poems that hurt. Words that are so painstakingly blunt they break
barriers. People that are so honest it brings others to their knees.
Eventually, they will beg and they will plead. “Please end your statement with a period and not
a dagger.”
“Cartographer of Crumpled Maps”, “At a Concert, Battery Park” and “Migration”
The painted buntings used to pair among
the fractured feelings
neither bunting nor feeling,
came to assist their harvest
what was settled among the field, a Hairy bear (one that laughed)
slinked in from the wilderness
“Jumpers’ Heaven”, “Exhumation” and “Who Your Brother Knew”
Three boys, bare-backed, draped elbows
over a life raft. It was a spring mid-day.
A fourth propelled himself into the air
drew up his knees to his chest
and cracked the surface, causing his friends
to shake their heads and dab at their eyes.
“Slowly”, “Where the Light Is” and “Bystander”
I wish you would take the time you need.
Enter and enter again until clarity comes
and you leave with all the answers.
We talk of the weather to avoid talk
of the things that matter,
The Lonely Stay At Home
The house was never silent after I was born, but not because of baby wails or shrieks. It was because of the TV. TV whispers woke me every morning and swayed me to sleep. The flickering light filled the hallway in a comforting glow that made the dark seem less menacing in the midst of night. It cloaked the actual silence, the short but frequent absences. More so, I’d come to know the TV as my mother.
A Greater Good
Jurgen was skeptical. Cautiously, he tugged on the line to make sure the grappling hook had found its hold. It had. Stable as the cable seemed, though, it proved difficult for Jurgen to identify how, specifically, hijacking a 19th century galleon stranded in the gelid black waters of the Arctic Ocean might help him find a sense of purpose.
A List
Brett invites me over after school to grind his rail, which is of little consequence to me, since I can barely ollie straight; but sometimes I can heelflip, which makes me believe in improvement and wards off the stomach-eating-reality that skateboarding, for me, cannot be sustained,
Owl Feathers
I walk down the highway today as cars rush by, travelers for the holiday hurrying to get to their destinations. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and traffic is heavy. Across the road, I see a dead bird with distinctive feathers.
First Moments
I spent the first moments of my life not really in it. When most babies are born, the process is straightforward. They come out. They cry. The doctors and nurses check a few things to make sure everything is working.
Even Robots Screw Up
The plan was simple, the execution a bit tricky, but I was ready. Man, was I ready. Or maybe I was tired of trying to figure out what might go wrong. I just wanted to get going. We’d certainly spent enough time puzzling over the damn details.
Toshihiro’s Last Part
Toshihiro arrived at the Osakako station fifteen minutes earlier than planned. As he left the subway, he realised the sun had already set while he was underground, making him feel as if he travelled to a place more distant.
Hebrew for the Sabbath Day
Malawach, the bubbly Yemenite pancake bread oozing with meat and vegetables, bloated the teachers’ American bellies, as the tour bus spirited them away from the trendy restaurant to the terraced sidewalks of Jerusalem’s Tayelet.
Rabbit’s Den
I don’t remember if this was before or after the fumigator accidentally lit our house on fire in 2002, which turned out to be sort of a mixed bag in the long run, but I have this picture in my head where Bunny is running toward me down a hallway and then she’s in my arms,
The Missing Girl
“Dad,” someone was saying. “Dad. DAD!”
And now poking, he noted.
“Yeah. OK,” he said, lifting his head from his arms.
“This place is disgusting,” his daughter told him.
“Well, daughter mine,” James muttered. “Of all the gin joints you could have found me in … at least this is a gin joint.”