Meeting Salvador

galagalagalagalagalagalagala
At first I thought
it was cicadas calling my name.
The song rose and fell neatly
with the rest of the summer's ruckus.

galagalagalagalagalagalagala--
Not cicadas. The sound sped ceaselessly
from a second-story window.
From my plastic perch in the garden
I saw the pacing shadow
of the shy noisemaker.

He wrung his hands, released
the moan, which, escaping, crashed
and beat its fists against
the hot fence of my name:
Gala. Gala. Gala.






"Salvador Dali's love for Gala, a woman 10 years older than he and the wife of his friend Paul Eluard, exploded when they met; he realized numerous extravagancies to capture her attention, such as waxing his armpit and dying it blue, applying goat excrement to his skin and wearing a red geranium on his head. His emotion was such that, every time he tried to talk to her, he suffered uncontrollable laughing attacks."

The American Dream

We wink at the fox
with the bird in his mouth;
"Clever fellow," we say.
But outrage dawns
with the sunrise sight
of a vacancy
in the henhouse.

Commuter Lessons

My first week in the city
I learned to dress, check
the mirror, then undress, don
coat over camisole, lest
in the crosswalk trot
to the Metro stop
I bathe myself in sweat.
High heels and blouse go
in the canvas tote.
Sneakers go on the feet.

Week two was a city-face seminar.
Here I am, direct from New England,
where for an hour each morning
and one every night I watched the road,
peering for deer, defensive,
alert and observing.
Do that here and you'll get stabbed,
if you aren't arrested first.
Keep your eyes to yourself, girl.
Look hard at those sneakers.

Just this morning I learned the secret
of the reflector-jacketed man
who offers newspapers
at the top of the granite M stairs.
He is not a paperman.
He is the prop master,
equipping savvier commuters
with something not-sneakers
to stare at.

Selected English Gaps

1. For Smiling and Shaking One's Head
There is no word
to type in response
to a very long joke
with a terrible,
wonderful punch line.


2. For the Realization of Sensual Potential
There is no word
to sing to the world
when the body,
in love, becomes
what it can be.


3. For She Who Is Both Widow and Orphan
There is no word
that fits in the mouth
for the mother
whose children
are gone.





"Starry Cover" by Milo Moyer Battick, 2009. Ballpoint pen on old dictionary page.

tensixteen (sub)

i am
cold, under-u
tilized.

my tongue
tastes of copper:
the under-
side shines
with heavier elements.

the skull in my head
‘s rounder; some-
where there
‘s a green thread
knows why.
the wire night
stretches on
and bed
‘s as yet
unbidden.

all tea
‘s too weak.
kettle
‘s already lied twice.

i’ve thrown stones.
still no word.

so: dissolve the fissures.
so: swallow the spade.



photograph by flickr user Lady Vervaine

Found Verse

The night is full of frogs and brakes
and planes en route to London;
But morning's sounds, when I awake,
will not tell where they come from.

The night is made from motorbikes
and large aircraft descending;
the dry leaves glide in gutters dry
to their own happy ending.

The night left me in ruffled nest
with one tear on my shoulder;
the daylight hours will serve as rest:
at sundown, I grow older.


photograph by Li Hui

In the Beginning

She de-
sired him,
which is to say
removed his father
from the picture.

In her thirst
she overlooked
the clink of highballs
in the cupboards.

His father thundered
in the study. She
shut the double doors.





photograph by Inès ☆