Poetry

We passed the baby over the bed, and later we passed tissue,
and her Bible with its onion skin pages, its highlighted lessons
and dog-eared parables she kept handy with bookmarks 

All the beautiful young men,
Muscles etched with birds and names
That would be long-forgotten 

I’m telling you, was always like this: her fingers
around a cold glass, asking me if I really thought her lovely.
In a musky corner booth, thinking only of ourselves. We let one another be 

Nor its manifold mirages, billows and mountains
And mislaid islands shifting by the minute, which nonetheless

Do exist—as image, not as body

I intend to converse with many. None in the same room.
I have a daughter to search for, an acre of farmland to sell.
I must confirm that flour is falling and copper is rising;

This week’s poem, “God Knows English” by David Caplan, is complemented by a photograph by Noah Rabinowitz. The poem and photo are part of a series by Caplan called “Observances,” which appeared in our Spring 2012 issue on the state of...

This week’s poem is by Claudia Emerson: “Greengrocer.” It appeared in our Spring 2012 issue on the state of American Poetry. To download a high-resolution PDF of this image, click here.

My octogenarian
awakens