Poetry

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— 

If fluent motion could condense,
the solid essence might be this
vibrating motorcycle, dense

The whale washed ashore. Its still
body lay for days—turning and turning
one new color after another. 

I don’t quite know how it occurred
that this great fish has appeared
almost fully formed, it seemed
to crowd out all else in my aquarium

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.

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...