American Life in Poetry

I cannot speak the languages spoken in that vessel, cannot read the beads promising salvation. I know this only, that when the green of land appeared like light after the horror of this c...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/927

Now he answers to everything that reminds him of her,  a crib rocking, a circle of faces  crowing at him. He can neither leave his eyes open  nor shut them. Splits the night  walking betw...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/926

walking along together  in the nation’s capital  Joe stopped, stooped, picked a flower— a dandelion to be exact— then he handed it to Jill— who smiled in her white summer,  dress...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/925

While there is still some light  on the page, I am writing now  a history of snow, of everything  that has been and will be thought.  When a blind poet says I need you to be my eyes, the...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/924

I was a thought, a dream, a fish, a wing  And then a human being  When I emerged from my mother's river  On my father's boat of potent fever  I carried a sack of dreams from a starlit dwe...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/923

My husband holds the cold stethoscope to my chest— his brown eyes averted, he listens carefully, like someone taking directions on the phone on how to save another life. My heart is a room...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/922

Such strangeness these days. Morning rising over my head like the quilt sewn of old t-shirts or saltwater waves licking our sun-bleached dock. Then—you absorbing moment, you harvest que...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/921

In disregard of the signs, no one bothers with leashes, dogs barreling unbounded over every grooved path. He’s friendly they yell, 50 yards back. Don’t worry,  he’s darling, a cuddle...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/920

The moon tonight is closer to us than it will be for the rest of the year, grace willing, the year we will remember as the Great Pandemic. Pulling us closer into its orbit, shining the ligh...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/919

At what temperature does blood begin to boil? Thicken into a roux, slip between bits of basil, minced garlic, orecchiette; Permeate chunks of spicy kielbasa, bind a dash of salt, pepper, b...

https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/918