Icarus, sometimes I think we got it all wrong.
it’s not what you think,
Castor Avenue was Jewish then
old bearded men, two by two
arguing in Yiddish
Cake-walking down the sidewalk, a zaftig young woman witnessing to whatever lyric is surging through her headphones,
But nothing so stable as form-designated hue (especially which is no hue at all) will account for the sudden ruddiness, china-blue and, a few
months each year, light-wheat-toast.
i wasn’t allowed to go in their house.
but my mom let me play in the yard
with their daughter.
In the opposite corner – across the empty tables – is, I think,
Max, the young neighbor-man who when he was about two,
When I started this poetry class, I was terrified. Mostly, I feared appearing stupid during critiques. What if I accidentally faulted a poem for having sixteen lines or missed a pristine example of enjambment (I still don’t know what this word means)?
“I see death’s door opening!”
At thirty-six she has never had a man fall asleep with his head on her shoulder. She has never been touched before. Not like that. Not by a man. Or a woman.