Arriving in New York for My Grandfather’s FuneralAlison Doernberg
We have unlatched
a house where no one lives.
The walls, like spines
of library volumes, softened by time.
Back home, no salt lines ribbon across the toes
of my boots and I cannot untangle
where loss resides –
in the ache of the empty kitchen chair,
the calendar page unturned,
the tired linoleum.
My parents asleep in the snakeskin
of his bed, cocooned in vacancy,
the next in line.
The rafters sigh, but cannot mend. And soon
the blanket edges will hold the scent
of someone else’s skin.
This Is a Woman
Excerpt from Crocodile: Memoirs
From a Mexican Drug-Running Port
Five Scenes from Six and Renaldo
The Music Inside
The Ear as Rifle
Tania Van Winkle
Arriving in New York for My Grandfather’s Funeral
Notes on Summer
Notes on Continuation
Spanking Without a Cause
You Are Here
Brother and Sister
The Ugly Duckling