Browsing a library copy of What to Expect,
I imagine St. Jerome, making by candlelight
the infamous error.
in death I want to be cremated
burn up with desire and whoosh
with the wind, backspraying
onto a friend’s face or coat,
From the Review, June, 2008.
We celebrate the 2020 winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, with a look back at four decades of her work in the Review.
From the Review, April, 2008.
From the Review, October, 2011.
From the Review, January, 1999.
From the Review, July, 1981.
From the Review, January–April, 1992.
His face tanned almost to the faded tone
of the adobe alcove, father’s father
sits in his handsome sixties
Encounter plus a posture of consent:
A messiah might hide in a second spent
I wish I cared more
about the birds, but I am interested in omens,
Looking back, it seems
the mind knows as little as the body
what it acts out
I visited Rome once. I was fifteen, just a slip of a girl, or less than a slip,
I was maybe a sip of a watered-down drink, in a tulip skirt and flip flops
We would sit at the counter saying I love so-and-so
but live with so-and-so-someone-else,
“Take unity away from a thing
and existence too ceases,” that brain had once thought.
When he was a spider
exuding thread between rocks,
he considered his earlier life as a man
Therefore they take this time
to whisper nothings to each other.
Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing,
Krystyna Dabrowska, translated by Mira Rosenthal
a young, black dog, how he kept falling headlong into the water,
With its hands in its pocket,
Moon hung calm above
Catastrophe, the police
Breaking the neck of a man
Death now in a pocket of pines, in the thick
Hair of a boy who turns a skunk over
With a stick, watching the Christmas of its intestines
How old are you,
sweet knot of toads, how old.
When I looked at him, a voice in my head said
This is your dad, he is speaking, you are on earth, this is your life
Phillip B. Williams
Maybe madness make my mouth mine?
Now, as we file in for our first journey
together, even this choice of fourteen floors