mumber 2

castro street


my shadow
my train.
Luck, this much
is plain:

hatchet face,
ratchet grin.
The bin
needs emptying

too little.
It’s true, I’m in
the middle

harvest moon


The least cricket of evening
is invisible, naked except for
its tiny violin, the lost bell
of its heart. Somewhere
in this room my terracotta
cricket with its sap-colored eyes
raises a hair-thin quiver

lavender leaves

Flight Of the Bumblebee

What music would Korsakov write
if he were here on earth as the bees
are dying? Their hives weightless lungs
paper lanterns swaying on the wind?
Their queen done telling her endless
stories to stay alive, no longer daughter
of the immortal gods: Father Frost
and Mother Spring, her heart melting
for the love of a man.

violas on a rack

Aubade with Mother Gone

And then it came back to me as I heard
a young boy practice his violin
under the concrete canopy of the park’s amphitheater

a highway to a city

I Give Up

My husband looked at her, then at me—it was a look of amazement and pride. See what our child can do? He wasn’t thinking, say, that she was about to scald herself with hot water.

an empty airplane aisle

The Best Date

Ryanair’s stuffed plane was about to take off from Berlin. Mira was devastated by the…