Listen: a son broken open by his father’s body is becoming a starling. We could call the father a sphinx moth lured to the boy’s nectarless throat. We could call the glottal stops between his son’s stifled night calls an espionage of pollen, an iron-studded infusion of musk. But the son is not a swath… [Read More]

what should I know to save you that I do not know . . . ? —Jorie Graham, “The Dream of the Unified Field”   I.   Instead of winter, a cache of ashes, my grandfather threshed then yielded to air. I’ll say graupel when I mean I’ve spooned from his urn masqueraded with cloisonné… [Read More]

A swan and woman gyre in orgy, jagged strands of DNA. Her thighs twist, rawboned, in his thunder of wings. This is a Baroque leitmotif: woman seduced by divinity. Woman undone by a god. The arches of her feet seize. Her fear muscles her forward under his neck’s spiraling heat. His head coups in the… [Read More]