Tag Archives: Michael Meyerhofer

The girls at the swimming pool, sudden goddesses in bathing suits, seemingly deified overnight then dressed but barely covered to us, full of mystery, their bodies just learning to curve, to giggle, to capture our fascination as we forget all … Continue reading →

I stayed inside today but had I gone out I might have written poems about blowing leaves or neighbors running through sprinklers or perhaps a line or two about the cardinal who landed briefly on my fence post then rose … Continue reading →

I almost cry to think of it now— the summer ending, alone with you in the backyard, finishing the bucket of chicken from KFC which you loved even though you’re a vegetarian now, the two of us sitting, still a … Continue reading →

In my basement gym, an insect long as my thumb, brown and gold, with many legs and feelers fore and aft—long bending appendages like bones from the wings of birds. Halfway through my workout, I notice him on the floor, … Continue reading →

One of the secretaries is talking about her dead mother today. How she dreams of her, and in the dream she asks her to stay awhile because she knows when she wakes up her mother will be gone. I’m glad, … Continue reading →

Once, from Iceland to Wales people believed that the soul rose from the corpse as a tiny tongue of flame— blue for children, yellow for adults, sometimes in groups foretelling how many deaths and funerals were to come. As in … Continue reading →

This is where we went wrong: that first day, eons back, after humans draped in hair or animal skins with sharp yellow teeth and filthy fingernails, at last found a plant they could eat and wondered what lay beneath it. … Continue reading →

            “A poet looks at the world as a man looks at a woman.”             —Wallace Stevens With each day, I feel more the weight of what must be said. The sentences no poem has touched. The joy and strife buried in … Continue reading →

We see it haunting lockets, cards, carved into the breasts of trees or fingered into fresh cement, this shape of what does not exist: two upside-down teardrops fused at the ankles, their cries unheard. In red cardboard, a vault for … Continue reading →