author of five books of poetry and recipient of two Massachusetts Cultural Council fellowships
I hear the dinner plates gossip Mom collected to a hundred. My friends say get on board, but I’m not bored. Dad’s a nap
lying by the fire. That’s why when radios broadcast news, news broadcast from radios gives air to my kinship, Dickey,
who says he’d go dead if ever I discovered him to them. I took care, then, the last time bedrooms banged, to tape over
the outlets, swipe the prints off DVDs, weep up the tea stains where once was coffee. Not one seep from him since.
What, you wander, do I mean? Except for slinging my songs wayward home, how do things in people go? is what I mean.
from Clangings (Sarabande Books)
PORTER SQUARE BOOKS