Poetry | wisconsinacademy.org
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We worked in the meadowwhere all daythe haybine and rakeswove patterns in the greenquilted rows and stitched texturesof mown hay, now windrowed, drying

If we hedge along the deferential maybe,the suspension of a bridge,this length of edge,we still move.

My daughter in prison plays the piano.She plays from memory, eyes closed,her heart a violin stringing alongas piano notes fall like raindropssoft while cedar trees and tulipsbend to her allure

Take up    hammer   nails   and pine        Build   one last            coffin   Name it                Oppression

The Haskell Free Library straddles the U. S. / Canadian border between Stanstead, Quebec and Derby Line, Vermont. The border is marked by a line of black tape on the floor of the reading room.

My dear friendyou are wrong to saythere are only stories.

Stories need bodies—larynx, tongue and teethhands to scratch them down

My father keeps samara seedssafe insidesmall matchboxes.

He holds his handout to me,a seed in his bark-like palm.

Sometimes the red symbolon a white backgroundis a swastika on a Sheboygan garage in 2017

To the age of hands and animals laying open the fields,is as far back as I know my family. From a languagethat is my heritage, from a language I cannot readis the marriage record in our family Heilige Schrift.

quantum bits:the either/and/or

particles of beinginstantly transmitted

across space—attraction’s valences

revealed onlywhen observed


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