A recently published fourth collection, Palominos Near Tuba City, exemplifies the talents that have earned poet Denise Sweet considerable accolades.
There was a boy who was not yet a man who spent a summer graftingbuds onto peach branches. It was hot; it was the bay shore ofMaryland and 1974. He carried a small knife and used it with his
What kind of times are these, whento talk about trees is almost a crimebecause it implies silence about so many horrors?—Bertolt Brecht, “To Those Born Later”
of a wasp appear from layersof lace in your wedding dress.It has just enough zest leftto sting like old vows and brokenpromises. That same day you aredeep into spring cleaning yourdaughter brings home
I prefer crowds with voices echoingup and down the train cars, city bus gears singing stop hereexhaust spewing, laughs rolling to the page—boots, heels, sneakers step on and off the curb,
My mother is a social worker who works in a hospitalshe makes daily visits checks her chartsshares small talk with the patientsas she brightens up their rooms
When you were three years old, I knocked on the men’s room door,and, taking your hand, opened the door cautiously.
I’d never been in a men’s room before.Urinal against the wall, a small white cake
Beneath the butcher-wrap paperlay Formica of gray with black flecks,and after my mother and her side-kick
So tell your story, each version more distantand yet … still fresh, never finished.
No matter whether death was suddenor a gradual decline,
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