Last Week When It Rained
Last week when it rained, we were together
in my small apartment, sharing the most intimate
confessions. Despite the late hour, we continued
to uncover answers to the questions that had troubled us
for many decades. This kind of work, you said to me,
is exceptionally satisfying, and I agreed.
The Confusion of Katya
(after Akhmatova)
A river flows past
a dome of many windows.
Monks are chanting.
My sister and I hear the mass, waiting for Catherine's barge
and the sweep of her golden wheat.
On the third day the aging Tsarina rides alone through ripening fields.
She takes my grandmother's ancient hand
and on the crooked staircase
kisses my lips.
Sappho to Gongyla
(inspired by several fragments from the Greek)
My face was hot. My need was strong.
I saw you lifting your arms at the edge of the sea.
Did you truly expect to touch the sky?
You did not glance in my direction.
You did not hear me breathing as I breathed your name.
When the moon sets, I will still be here counting the stars.
Big Windows Review published the poem Purple Sun and the flash fiction New Years Eve on the Q in their May 2022 edition. This journal also published What You Said in German was Not About Kissing in the May 2021 issue.
Purple Sun
I am back where I started. You are walking
toward me with a glass of water in your hand.
I look downward at your bare feet in the grass.
I understand that there are shoes you have never worn.
I know that everything might have been different.
I might not have crossed the street. You might have told me
to go away. There might be two moons in the sky
or a purple sun. Nod your head if you agree.
What You Said in German was Not About Kissing
Sharing a ham & cheese hero with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise and a bag of those cheese waffie things you liked on a hillside at the Bronx Botanical Garden was more fun than meeting you in that trattoria on the Piazza Navona with the waiter who spoke such good English because you were wearing the blue dress that buttoned down the front and we were caught in the rain but when we got back to the apartment on 189th street it was hotter than ever and we dragged the mattress up onto the roof and ate pepperoni pizza from downstairs where everybody spoke Italian to you but you didn’t know a word except maybe prego and scusi and although you took German at Hunter it wasn’t much help when we rode the D train to Central Park where the Met was performing something from Wagner, maybe Tannhauser which goes on forever but I loved you because you had read all of The Magic Mountain and called it Der Zauberberg and sometimes I look at you and want to tell you that Dominic’s has been closed for years and there’s probably no one else except maybe Barbara Kaufman who remembers the night when you said something in German and I thought you said “Kiss me.”
This poem was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Big Windows Review.
This month, Shot Glass Journal of Short Poetry published I Have No Memory, written in Austin last year.
I have no memory of getting on this bus.
I am sure I will recognize one of these streets eventually.
I will get off the bus and have something to eat.
Yesterday I drank coffee in the place that you loved on South Congress Street.
I ate the same kind of tacos with egg and chorizo that you always ordered.
Later, I will meet with old friends on zoom.
They will tell me about people who are not dead.
I have no memory of getting on this bus.
I am sure I will recognize one of these streets eventually.
I will get off the bus and have something to eat.
Yesterday I drank coffee in the place that you loved on South Congress Street.
Later, I will meet with old friends on zoom.
They will tell me about people who are still living.