By Li Bai
Translated By Keith Holyoak
Back when my hair barely covered my forehead
I was picking flowers in front of the gate.
You rode over…
I was picking flowers in front of the gate.
You rode over…
Explore Poems: Marriage & Companionship
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- By Kimberly Johnsoni
The last time I lost you, I had turned
To salt. The hospice nurses all assured
An easier passing this… - By Martha SilanoIs this the last time I’ll admire the guys
in their neon-yellow slickers, guiding us
to our parking spots… - By William OlsenObservation isn’t serious play. It is living serious. Same heron. It’s used to us, we are as twilight…
- By Molly PeacockYou burst through the door
wheeling your red Swiss
Army suitcase—how had
you packed all you needed
in… - By Molly PeacockWhen you looked up and said, “Thank you,” I saw
your gratitude rise over us like rain.
It seemed external… - By Molly PeacockWhen I feel moved and then say I am touched,
it’s another presence inside me I sense,
the dip of an oar… - By Cornelius EadySome folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell… - By Ama CodjoeI don’t like being photographed. When we kissed
at a wedding, the night grew long and luminous.
You unhooked my bra. A photograph
passes for proof, Sontag says, that a given thing
has happened. Or you leaned back to watch
as I eased the straps... - By Richard SikenDriving, dogs barking, how you get used to it, how you make
the new streets… - By DaMaris B. HillEvery wife must apologize for not being her husband’s
mother? But he will not forgive you. The absence
of his mother's kiss is the scar of repeated
wounding. He marries you too young, before
he littered his seeds along the road. This is why
he... - By Marosa di GiorgioTranslated By Sarah María MedinaMama said “wedding crowns,” and I looked at the tight bouquets, dark white, forbidding, portraits of ancient weddings, too serious, the groom stiff, the bride boxed, like a doll, adorned with rhinestones.
The brides of the orchards crossing the entire lettuce... - By Amber AdamsOn the morning after my death
it will seem like any other day
where you will both wake and sleep
and some events between,
but I will not be here
to change the mop pad, or order
the coffee pods before we run out.
I will be... - By C.L. O’DellOne day
either you
or me
as if drugged
will be staring
at a collage
of photos
in an unfamiliar
foyer,
the other
sleeping
in the next room over
inside a shiny box
like a saw-in-half trick
where everyone
seated in rows
is waiting for something
to happen.
I know
I’ll be stuck
in that first room
where old friends
who knew
you... - By Julien StrongEventually my stepfather grew tired
of his exile in the basement
and left. She wept and begged him
not to go but he packed his Hummingbird
guitar and soldering irons and moved in
with a woman he’d met at the corner store.
And my mother took... - By Marosa di GiorgioMamá decía “coronas de novia,” y yo miraba los racimos apretados, de un blanco oscuro, adusto, retratos de antiguas bodas, demasiado serias, el novio tieso, la novia en caja, como una muñeca, con adornos de strass.
Las novias de los huertos... - By J. V. CunninghamYou are the problem I propose,
My dear, the text my musings glose:
I call you for convenience love.
By definition you’re a cause
Inferred by necessary laws—
You are so to the saints above.
But in this shadowy lower life
I sleep with a terrestrial wife
And... - By Shira ErlichmanIn the cab, you turn pink from the streetlights checkering the window.
Just as palpable, you grow inner-blue with hush, staring somewhere
beyond the moon. Post-surgery, wrapped in a massive scarf,
sunglasses on, you fall suddenly asleep. I have no choice but to... - By Ali LiebegottI want to grow old with you.
Old, old.
So old we pad through the supermarket
using the shopping cart as a cane that steadies us.
I’ll wait at register two in my green sweater
with threadbare elbows, smiling
because you’ve forgotten the bag of day-old... - By Brian GyamfiWhen Eloise tells Kofi she wants a divorce,
he sits naked on the kitchen floor skinning
an ox tongue to prepare Eloise’s favorite dish.
Blood trickles down his fingers onto the floor.
This is not in my head, in my head the bruised
organ is...