poetry
He was from overalls, from Plug tobacca and ploughshares. He was from the hand-sawn, sixteen-penny house, Small and warm, and with unlocked doors. He was from the willow tree, honey-suckle and sandstone,
You are the long hour before the alarm and endless stream of infomercials, the hour I learned cross-stitching and finally finished Moby-Dick.
In a haze, she sees her dead child stand beside her iron bed, linked to her by a tube; in the same instant, Frida feels her heart lifted from her, ticking and dripping, still attached
The sun rose to meet me late.Pimpled and miserable under July sheets,I had too many brothers with fistslike pistons, a mother who made meiron or dust or leave her alone:she had a headache.
The hope chest contains what my mother wants
me to cherish in the future—
lace curtains that lift like a glove at the height of being
tossed; a substance bracing itself with an absence.
It reigned in the center of the downtown square;you could use your actual feet to get there.Most often you arrived on a coffee break, orafter work when you remembered you needednew Fruit of the Loom, a Teflon pan for
I tap my toes when Mary, on cello, plucks the theme, a scotch-and-soda tune, her song about an evening we can stroll and strut away our aches, her dimples promising salt- laden shoreline breezes; drummer brushes
Our hospital conversation turns to snow and bitter cold, how it is the same this year as when we walked to school, snow way up over our galoshes, how it made those red rings
When my last lover went, she left her long brown braids in the dresser drawer
so I hung them from the garden fence to scare the deer away.
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Wisconsin Academy Offices
1922 University Avenue
Madison, Wisconsin 53726
Phone: 608.733.6633
James Watrous Gallery
3rd Floor, Overture Center for the Arts
201 State Street
Madison, WI 53703
Phone: 608.733.6633 x25