Tag: Poem

The stones are endlessly weeping in the dark. Or is it
the bird-chatter of rain. O darling, are you writing
another poem about trees? No, not trees but ghosts
that live on trees and their legend of never-let-gos.

When you were / in the Everglades we canoed from Flamingo and through the canals.

My feet moved down another street / and I saw the shape they would draw / on the map in my mind.

Look at my heartbeat / and its consequence, / that cup warm on my palm

How would I know / when I’m empty and quiet like breath?

But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.

As a student, I stitched / a cadaver together / while my professor / said you must / be a predator . . .

I ain’t dead and in this form, / I can matrix my way out of your bullet.

I was also spat across an ocean

and clung to the edge of an unwilling continent.

Selected by Sonia Sanchez as a winner of the 2021 Boston Review Annual Poetry Contest