Ziti Motlog
This story takes place in a garden. I have great affection for gardens, and this one was no exception. It was more of a backyard than a garden, but it had a number of mature crab apple trees flaunting vivid pink blossoms. Beneath the back porch light, daffodils were rioting; my hostess’s young guests were beautiful and eager to get drunk.
The Song of America
I’m raising my child to become the end of rotting,
and to expose the lushness of the cemetery moth.
I’m raising my child to know the difference between the two sunsets:
Two Poems
To pimp the fine young cadence
of the dying gasp’s demented urge
to sentence
The Mauvais Gondolier
As we sat in Central Park
you turned my head to see
what I’d already heard.
Two Poems
Mind you, or mind the mind—
Did it occur to you—that it did so many things at once?
Its battle lies mostly in convincing us to feel good
Tell Me When It Hurts
My father is in the water again.
He is treading in front of me, a snorkel in his mouth, his mask filled with fog. He watches me for a moment and then dives down, disappearing at the edge of the drop off.
Three Poems
The softened sound of lighter traffic
beaches on attention
in the now and then just barely
a wave pattern,
Two Poems
I might benefit from supplemental testosterone.
My arm is missing a wedge.
Dung Cart
I like poetry but it is a dung cart. I like being in love but that is a dung cart too. I have to be content with things that are dung carts although I really want something that is not a dung cart.
A Slight Change in Tuesday
I don’t know how the tradition started, but that whole year Fred and I never cooked dinner on Tuesdays. Word must have gone around that we treated our bach- elors well because there was never any difficulty securing one. One year, fifty-two Tuesdays, fifty-two men we convinced to cook dinner for us.
