Poetry

my little grandmother
knows no pain
she believes that
hunger—is food

[…]

That night I read The Revolt of the Masses not yet knowing
that at that same hour they
set houses on fire. They say,
an old woman tossed in flames trying

[…]

All I can do
to keep from believing
where, in truth, your last steps led,

Days later, not long after we left the convent,
the war ended. I promised to take her directly
to the train station, but the sight of her
on the back seat scrambling out of that uniform,

The workers specialize according to their age.
At first they feed the queen her royal jelly
and then they nurse the larvae in their combs.

A summer rain front laces a trailing hat of mist
around the headland’s mountain: a saucer of mist
scraping the treetops    hanging over rock outcrops