I read there are things out in space called quasars. Nobody really knows what they are. I hadn’t heard of them, so I looked it up, and it said: “An extremely remote celestial object, emitting exceptionally large amounts of energy.” They look like stars. Scientists think they have black holes inside them, but that maybe they’re the beginnings of new galaxies.
Imagine, a whole new galaxy in the process of being born. There’s hope in that, isn’t there? I think that’s hope.
In twin chairs by the lakeside tonight we’ve watched day’s last light
spread like a bright blush over treetops past the point where cabins stand
abandoned, sealed against winter. In the middle distance the island floats,
fading. There alone the wild blueberries hang like unmarked globes over water
separating shore from shore. Why they grow there but not here
puzzles, like love or the coming bereavements of autumn, or rumors of empty, drifting skiffs.
For now at least the island remains part and not part of the unknowing night
as we are to each other island and mainland, ship and shore,
a familiar place; a mystery.
Anniversary, Exclusions & Limitations
Educate girls and there will be no more guillotines. That is what my father told me.
My father knew nothing about girls.
Madame, Charlotte's Letters
She is making herself and not herself— anguish dressed in baroque repose,
a motionlessness that is never still, arranged, betraying nothing—
the restrained line of an eyebrow or lip, the arc of a neck, the skillful reflection
of a sleeve of the moon-white gown in the olive-green water
gradually assembled, balanced there in this unexpected moment,
this small world holding its breath.
(From White, Midlist Press First Series Award for Poetry)
from Susanna and the Elders, White
Okay. So sue me. Do you have any idea what it’s like being me?
(To an Audience member:)
Maybe you do, but the rest of you don’t. (Beat) People always thinking you’re fucked up or off your meds, eve when you try to hide it. But we can’t hide anything from them. They know. Ever try to ignore someone who’s yakking at you ceaselessly? And believe me, the dead can talk. They don’t have anything else to do.