From the Review, Autumn, 1930.
From the Review, January, 1992.
Where lyric meets narrative
Why has a kind of prosaic poetry suddenly become so appealing?
this land, while snow turns all to immigrants …
Lately I’ve been moved by how
the skeletons were found …
Where did he go? I asked.
Where do the missing ever go?
For now, the sting of being—
like an ambulance
playing the tune
you cannot name…
People withoutanger are more developed.
There were too many doors; there weretwo right in the middle of a hallway. Some you couldn’t open without closing others facing them.
Thirty white people wearing white and posing
by the sea. Actually, two of themwear blue…
The pigeons ran around in berserk patterns outside.Our warm, clandestine complicity had the force of a new actuality.
With me, life becomes sweeter, so she loses some ofthe ability to defend herself.
When we met later in the alley to take out the trash, we would reliably turn into two lumps of fear.
I hate Lyndon Johnson until I love Lyndon Johnson…
the video girls. Tell them to twerk to this …
I had been raised as a Reform Jew—in other words, an agnostic worshipper of narrative …
My husband says he doesn’t really likeshort stories, says only novelscapture the human experience.
I missed my father. I ate wax in my impatience.
You are an American Girl. Here you are in an American Poem …
His father’s fists turned him mild as a Jainto his son, me.
your phone is flashing with a work email;
our jobs aren’t safe and we still rent.
She said it was an Asian thing and then they stopped asking.
Since it didn’t happen the evening
Of whatever the hell Emmett Till did;
Won’t let me sing.
William Virgil Davis
Tonight, there are no stars.
This huge hooded dark
is like a deep sleep
Lunch breaks, summer I was 20 clerking for the City, I’d sit on marble benches
across from the glass palace of DWP, over at the Mark Taper,
The water worried me
when the gray face that floated over it
in lines and patches to the shore
I give her chances all the time — not to make
her the mom for me. But I’m just passing through
her stop, on a middle track, seeing her go left
across my window while she stands on the platform,
So, Love, when that celebrated clarifier,
Chemotherapy, calls back—for us,