all the world on a single page.

As much as I could hold

on my plastic card’s imprint I took,

greedily: six books, six volumes of bliss,

the stuff we humans are made of:

words and sighs and silence,

ink and whips, Brahma and cosine,

corsets and poetry and blood sugar levels—

I carried it home, past five blocks of aluminum siding

and the old garage where, on its boarded-up doors,

someone had scrawled:

I CAN EAT AN ELEPHANT
IF I TAKE SMALL BITES.

Yes, I said, to no one in particular: That’s
what I’m gonna do!

Freedom: Bird’s-Eye View

The sun flies over the madrigals,

outsmarting the magisterial

wits, sad ducks

who imagine they matter.

What a parade! Wind tucks

a Dixie cup up its

sleeve, absconds

with a kid’s bright chatter

while above, hawks

wheel as the magistrates circle

below, clutching their hats.

I’m not buying. To watch

the tops of 10,000

heads floating by on sticks

and not care if one of them

sees me (though it

would be a kick!)

—now, that’s

what I’d call

freedom,

and justice,

and ice cream for all.

Testimonial

Back when the earth was new
and heaven just a whisper,
back when the names of things
hadn’t had time to stick;

back when the smallest breezes
melted summer into autumn,
when all the poplars quivered
sweetly in rank and file . . .

the world called, and I answered.

Each glance ignited to a gaze.

I caught my breath and called that life,

swooned between spoonfuls of lemon sorbet.

I was pirouette and flourish,
I was filigree and flame.
How could I count my blessings
when I didn’t know their names?

Back when everything was still to come,
luck leaked out everywhere.
I gave my promise to the world,
and the world followed me here.

Dawn Revisited

Imagine you wake up

with a second chance: The blue jay

hawks his pretty wares

and the oak still stands, spreading

glorious shade. If you don’t look back,

the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits—
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours

to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You’ll never know
who’s down there, frying those eggs,
if you don’t get up and see.

Black on a Saturday Night

Black on a Saturday Night

My Mother Enters the Work Force

The path to ABC Business School

was paid for by a lucky sign:

ALTERATIONS, QUALIFIED SEAMSTRESS INQUIRE WITHIN.

Tested on sleeves, hers

never puckered—puffed or sleek,

leg-o’-mutton or raglan—

they barely needed the damp cloth

to steam them perfect.

Those were the afternoons. Evenings

she took in piecework, the treadle machine

with its locomotive whir

traveling the lit path of the needle

through quicksand taffeta

or velvet deep as a forest.

And now and now sang the treadle,

I know, I know. . . .

And then it was day again, all morning