Poetry

My broker and I watched the markets drop, 
ticker crawling across the bottom of the Bloomberg screen, 
and salvaged what we could,
kept Microsoft, sold AXA, unwound

I descended into the underworld again
in my dream and there for the umpteenth time 
stood my father in a plaid button-down shirt
and khakis a freshly lit pipe a wreath of smoke 

Has there ever been a group of agnostics so intent
upon meaning
in every car door shutting

I had just taken her photograph.
Everyone else crowded on the back deck, 
talking, flirting, admiring the silver
of sunset in their drinks. 

When we found out our daughter had gone deaf,
I did not question God’s fairness— 

He found me browsing the poetry section of a bookstore.
I remembered his face from my last readings.

He found me browsing the poetry section of a bookstore.
I refused his leaflet. His voice became agitated and loud.

Storm me.
Send 

me down into the dirt
& dark, raise 

me like thunder up.

Suppose we surprised him coming off the path
into the patch of pines and saw palmettos,
two girls with our child-sized bikes. Suppose
he had a reason to chase us back to the path,
his pale face flushed with—what? Desire? Wrath? 

Turner, a celebrity chef, wrote Brian Turner’s
Favourite British Recipes: Classic Dishes
from Yorkshire Pudding to Spotted Dick. He played 
drums for the horror-punk band Schoolyard Heroes,
played hockey for New Zealand in the sixties, lifted
th...