The CrossingCaroline Knapp
The quayed riverbed open like palms.
The not body not broken: is ended.
Shell of cicada dust-white in the calcite gulley.
A strange ship sailed in.
Sepia tree in the petal: a suffused tale we scarcely saw.
The men keep turning into deer.
Dropped datura body at our feet.
Name: antistrophe. Hemistich. Corner of my eye.
Death’s-head moth buttoned on the bathroom mirror.
I sing: keep before me the hollow between lines.
Name: terpsichore. Name: the mothers’ prayer.
This is the crossing:
Super flumina babylonis we hang up our old skins.
A swayed song we scarcely recognize.
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