Poetry

An all black wasp.

My spine
wrung bell.

I beg you.

Eyes nuclear
winter blue.

The sarabande lilies
you gave me open
toward the kitchen
window. I will make us
breakfast this morning: corn
grits, bacon, eggs
with the raspberry
tart cheese you bought.

will be the title of Fox’s tenth
painting—she knows, she’s sure
of it—even though she doesn’t
yet own brush and canvas,
a palette of oils, water colors.

When she turns seventy, Fox vows,
she’ll take up painting, make a place
in a room of sudden sun and shadow
for easel, oils, thinner, rags,
where her eyes can open and close like the mouth

of a skillful mermaid diving. …

We wiped the closet ceiling with bleach water,
and the mold paled. You edged and I rolled on
ultra-white paint, and we praised our triumph
too soon—green-black crop circles emerged
later that week. We learned to destroy first
the source of moisture. …

In the beginning the beginning.
In the beginning It began.
In the beginning It swallowed the pine needle
and forthwith spat out the whole shebang.

It was a large barred owl, as much tree
as owl, a few feet from the window.
She watched all morning. Sometimes he dozed,

other times swiveled his police-light head,
calling: Who cooks for you? Who cooks
for you? . . .

On the porch, we shake the dead
lightbulb day, hear broken filament
in our voices. You ask, Are you listening to me?
How can I answer—No. My silence orbits
the yard, the circling makes us suffer.

She says that beneath the microscope
lust looks just like hydrogen
building the world with weightlessness.
Above the lens, it looks like a woman
who wants to touch the sun
more than she wants to touch me.

She says that beneath the microscope
lust looks just like hydrogen
building the world with weightlessness.
Above the lens, it looks like a woman
who wants to touch the sun
more than she wants to touch me.