. . . the moon comes up in her
secondness, left edge not
filled in quite, the abject not filled in quite
but trying . . .
•
The infinitely ‘being called’ then
not chosen,
also the fear of being surpassed, cast
off, you know, not needed . . .
•
When first he—no. When you
first stepped from the restaurant, your
bodies annointed with peppermint and sweet
herbs, a sliver of moon snagged on his lip . . .
•
She said
it helps to know
Van Gogh with his
obsession for yellow—
•
He tried the windows and he tried—
nope.
He tried the windows then
he tried the doors.
•
haiku in translation it would be like this
autumn moon colon
some wine stains on white linen
his separate past
•
of those dear, fugitive hours, all
erased, erasable!
Still . . .
•
Through the tic-tac-toe of the steel
window grid, the start
of one gold O
then the game is given up—
•
Some heavy, hopeful
woolen clouds over it—
no use.
The Democratic party . . .
•
—and kept working hard on this
instead of the one about
the father, who was, of course,
‘the sun’
•
—and saw some swirling
mist over it, notes from
ex-wives over the years, their gracious
almost stupid handwriting—
•
female creativity, avoiding
the issue of talking
about the father who was
of course ‘the sun’
•
Halloween: with your tiny one
you stand on the curbside, beam
the flashlight up to its
tin cathedrals—
the desire to be
understood though being
understood was not
what you meant . . .
•
Raindrops off the eaves
make the cage
for the waning moon,
the satisfied one . . .
•
A rich word
used casually in conversation
(‘inveigled’) swells
as you use it through the days
•
When it really is very
crescent, Die
Valkerie, the memory
of large, bruised women—
•
calcium
bufferin
halcyon
aspirin
•
Sometimes over Tomales Bay at its half
the blue has leaked in through the lace
edge so it really looks unfinished
like a feminine—what?—something
•
—so why every
month the white expansion,
drop of estrogen?
•
. . . and how could you not have reflected him?
When you were called into the lubianka of the soul,
the question chamber you yourself contained,
it was always he who was there . . .
•
Passing Kehoe Beach
spotted moon with moth-
spotted hawk
under her
•
then in your dark
corner of heaven, to learn
the beauty of your life,
you had to leave something out . . .
•
Woman poet—hateful term!
Sometimes you despised
the moon with her
hymn of granite—
•
three quarters gone
in the faded sky: his Levi’s
button
just unbuttoned
•
Send it back!
Send back what was on the right,
the shadow of the feminine, the pastel.
She wasn’t nice now, was she.
•
—order within an incompleteness, the cut
tip of a scallion.
Women poets don’t have world views,
said the male poet—
•
hard isn’t it. Almost full again.
If you press gently
at the edges, at
the dark spots in the poem, it may
spring open—