Thursday, April 17, 2014

April 17th


This Is Why I Can’t Have Nice Things

My mother says this about the ripped coat
pocket,  the dog’s tearing of the corner
carpet. I said it today, when the earring
snagged in the scarf I was brought from
Dubai. I said it when the tulips died too
early. And before when my good sweater
got caught in the cab door. Cradle, cradle,
I am able. I’m the girl with glass clinking,
the girl with the years shrinking, careful
to learn to love what is changing, bowing
to the cracked up stream of what comes,
nice enough and made of air.   

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

April 16th



In the Name of Science 
--For Nina Tandon

Right when the great horse bucked
hard and I bled like the fallen jockey
splayed out in the harsh sandy loam
as my rigged race went thundering on,
right then, I met a woman making human
hearts in a lab in Brooklyn. Her job
is coaxing alive beating human tissue.
Funny, just when I wanted mine
to stop, give up the pitying romantic
pull, there she was making more
of my enemy, more of the bruises
and brute strength, more of the prehistoric
pulsing. She's got the microscope begging 

the mystery back, talking to the hungry 
engineered cell culture system, saying 
it's going to be okay if it keeps beating
a bit more, comes electrifies the crowds, 
just toughens for the fall.