ventura, 2007

r

i remember her in that yellow shirt
corduroy shorts
left leg kite
marker drawn
and no hair
my friend,
megan.

they are fighting now
in la mirada

lily, lolita, lo
queens of california
out there in long brown
locks, in all their
girl next doorness
i dreamt of haunted houses
and everyone getting married
and rosie thomas
in a purple dress

not enough money
what they say
this sunshine state’s
a black hole
it’s true
mcsweeney’s, vol 20
in steve’s bedroom
tired- they say
not enough iron

streetwise, tiny
her mouth upside down
warner kids
cars of ventura
behind the wildcat house
half pipe, they’re
skating in the backyard
driving, the three of us
in a grey pick up

tonight, spudnuts
maple
parking lot
red cardigan
broken car and we’re walking
without sky only
clouds

clean getaway
dark blue sparrow day
to escondido and back
the first real rain
since coming home
the absence of god
we – are starting fires
by accident
dipping our toes in
to feel warm
i’m here
again slouching
sewing autumn leaves
back
to their branches

cat tails
the ones that grow
near birches, in pieces
skin and lace
cold feet
and wild hearts
can’t be broken

riding in cars with boys
and big hands
scared of that place
in their heads, girls
with pink hair
and skinny legs
that hungry place they all go
even the quiet ones
who listen to soft music
and read philosphy

night fog
scratches down my arms
patterns from opening
paper bags over
and over
“falawar”
a flower
from yap island

california’s on fire
and winds named ana
black and yellow
the dark afternoons
those palms in pasadena
tall and crooked
leaning right, every single
one

i was counting crows
near the coldwater canyon
exit, north
on the 101
thinking of oregon
the sea and its rhythm
soft and late
i count down the streets
moon, telephone, hill
i count down from skeel
coe, lantana, ponderosa
carmen

moving boxes
isaac and his keyboard
falalfel dinners
pez candy

in my trunk- loose
confetti, a road atlas
a patterned
sleeping bag

coming back, 2007

flying over new mexico
above the second sea level
clouds,
soft cursive
fleece rising
up out of
mauve
and lumps
a second sea
level, a blur
of foam
and one line-
crayon
for a moment

the city at night
little my city bright
and i am coming
down in

a letter to owatonna,
the monsoons are here
dust floating
around

dreams in the middle
he was scratching her back
and her arms the sound
too loud
and my brown dress
too short
my bones not showing
enough in my knees

i didn’t expect people to keep me
while i was out there
yawning on trains.
i remember daniel.
splinters.
we are growing a vegetable garden
and reading milan kundera.
vertigo
being buried,

kirsten says
“i don’t want to hold something
that when you hold it
it dies”

dreams he is
kissing my knee

what i remember about montreal, 2011

20big

22big

21big

the radio was on when we were crossing the bridge
and you thought their french
sounded funny

trying to look around,
observe things
at stoplights
through chinatown
to the latin quarter

i remember getting bagels
and that cafe with all the plants
that was just perfect
a picture of a window
with rectangles of
construction paper
behind the glass,
evenly spaced
colours i liked

season colours-
things we wore-
my brown boots
and you in my
yellow sweater
often
a diner
sitting in the window booth
up front
coffee
and back then
i think we took it
with cream

walks
always walks
the spiral
staircases
the bricks paintings
on the walls
a shoestore named
yellow,
that sign OMMA
with the floral
letters

i think we took
your car
i assume
we went to a bakery
because that’s
what we love,
loved.

this city’s great
thinking yeah yeah
this is great
turning a corner and
yeah, maybe one day
i’ll move here

leaves dropping
in the backgrounds
of things-
a gentle
autumn snow

park bench
kinder egg
in all the pictures
your eyes, they’re closed

velika plana, march 2009

twentyseven

twentysix

snowing
on spring’s first day
the train
zagreb to gospić
curving up
into velebit mountains
station waiting
sky darkening
message must have
been lost
to pick me
up

to a place called
linden tree
velika plana village
7:07am waking
rice pudding-
we take turns
making it
stirring always
in the same direction
(said someone’s grandmother)
can’t remember now
if it was clockwise
or counter-
sweet coffee
boźidar, sara, silja
red tractor ride
sitting on haystacks
meeting the horses
“honestly,”

dizzy
months and months
and no one is waiting for me
touching my face
sunburn salmon heat
trapped somewhere
today i filled holes
with sheep’s wool
so the snakes
can’t come inside
today i ate whole pieces
of honeycomb,
the original chewing gum
they say.

dreamings-
running a marathon
using three pairs of shoes
choosing a blueberry crêpe,
ylvie there, in her bright
turquoise cap, running
to meet me
walking along the top
grand canyon edge
megan’s family and we are all taking a picture together
i am confused, looking at a big map
lines and numbers
can’t find the right bus
to get home.

walking to the farm
each morning
alongside a dog
named medo
(meadow)
protecting us
but terrorizing
other people’s chickens
nodding to neighbors
saying “dobar dan”
an invitation
eight o clock
morning homemade
rakija shots
what do you do
but smile
and drink

more snow
we are tearing down walls
plaster sprinkles
then sanding to
phil collins
on cassette
lunch break
eating soup

chills
building
fences weaving branches
thinking about
wendy’s house of leaves
thinking people huddle
they hold on to what is near
i know people hold on tight sometimes and me i’m
i am far
“jezebel

sayin’ wait. we swear
we’ll love you more.”

i miss sleeping in and big paintings
my dresses, the loft
in los angeles,
and fish tacos.

oatmeal
i am listening to the horses
eat their corn
i am crossing my fingers
i am braiding my hair all the way
down to the bottom
scratches on hands
layers of blankets
two, three, four
rubberboots
riddles, stories

two days ago my brother turned 23.
i remember him small
in a red toy car
red and yellow plastic,
growing up too big
still trying
to fit inside
something about it
he just loved.

i can’t concentrate.
polishing saddles
this american life
lentil bolognese
rain replacing snow
“hard life”
by bonnie prince

who’s seen jezebel.
je pense à toi.
california
brown and blue.

“letter from hrvatska”
let me tell you, plainly
that i was falling down
from something very tall
oak or, eucalyptus
linden maybe cherry
down, landing some
big air only air
pushed it quick
inside to out
pulling little branches
from my hair something
angled wrong what it feels like is
sometimes still, this down
fall.

salt fields, kampot cambodia

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passing them
from the back of a scooter
unsure at first –
a gloss
reflecting sky
or rectangles
of ice, rows
harvested
white
little pyramids

arriving, portland maine

darlingbig

cigaretting up
on the fire escape
it’s january first.

renter’s insurance
our names
in ink
in target with a big red
shopping cart and furniture
folded up, undone
driving home lost
familiarity a gift
quiet
now just me and darling
the cat now
for a little
while

shoveling snow
is a lot of work
and there’s one paperwhite
bloom
in the window

walking through town
rosy coat to knees
up high right
on congress
local sprouts a house
mug a buck
twenty five across
the street a general store
i liked,
memory isolated –
soon went out
of business
after
that day i went in
looking for a screwdriver.

snow and sidewalks
made of red
bricks. napping not
knowing how
to get started
staring at new pale
walls fumbling
forgetting
things

livorno, april 2007

i am in italy now,
kieran’s apartment
bialetti
answering phones
“pronto”
i am ready.

the novelty
of kettle
and markets
clotheslines,

pocketed
aprons
mountain
tunnels

tender,
i am thinking about things
that will never come back.

traveller
pines,

like sleeping
in a big bed
until a ridiculous
afternoon time
then strawberries
and toast
drink tea
in my pajamas

this is what i want.
the bliss
of walls
of personal
space.

white grass
spread florally
island,
fortress
warm april
a dress
with lace

siesta
the laze
of it, grown
up napping

sun sea,
mediterranean
sometimes i think of peter
and i do not know why.

eventually

000027

000002

don’t forget india.

unpacking,
water stains
things i don’t remember
getting wet.

now, baths
hours
of extra skin
reading about vietnam
world war two
(an attempt at
intentionality)
wondering what
i’ll write in letters
this winter wondering
why i can’t make it home
for kirsten’s wedding if
i would have been
a bridesmaid and what spring
in california
is like this year
and storytelling-
i am making this
up my
narrative
outgrowing
your own character
sometimes
that happens
palms up, steaming
(knowing)
i am full
of something powerful.

exchanging
companions.
now, just big shy
sidewalks
without plants
stalls carts and where
are all the people
scents
and songs litter
animals-
now, it’s quiet

now, victorians
carved in pairs
with porches,
gates overflowing
rosemary

but mostly i’m cold
i don’t have the right clothes.
i am not ready for
autumn in april-
everything’s backwards
and all i have are kurtas
and two pairs
of thin socks
but there are things
returning-
like groceries
shelves an
address a laundry
basket,
keys
the most ordinary
dear things they’re
coming back

lists
and getting started
i’m a toss
in the night dreams
and twists
and aches on hold
i still can’t
really let out
holding air
waiting,

this transition
of body
and after a while
the rest,
eventually
following

nova scotia, september 2011

11big

13big

15big

going north
and then let’s
go farther-
halifax,
katie and abe
trans canada highway
trees forever
on both sides.

cape breton
cabot trail
big sighs
and quiet
looking
wooden
houses and boats
in the front yards
prairies
on top mountains
at meat cove
cheticamp,
iginosh
highlands
cove,
ocean playground.

middlehead trail
and waterfalls running
into the sea
my friend
in a red hood
giggling
and sometimes
we are just
seven
years old.

we take turns
driving, napping
your pearl earrings
avocado
in the grass

new brunswick wide
road small
hills, border
signs for bangor
lewiston auburn
almost home.

we did not see wild horses.
or moose.
i’m trying
to not feel disappointed
about that.

leaving providence

image

things in boxes
that used to hold pears
and i am scrubbing cabinets
window panes hallway
floors thinking i’ve hated
this house thinking
yes, i’ve loved
this house

at work cleaning out
another locker, another
family now floating –

wade
with the blue eyes,
kind seth, and leanne
who always said,
“what a nice lady.”
the sues, and steve just
something about that man
i loved

u-haul, strange
to own furniture and everything’s
loaded and i don’t even stop
for a last look i just
completely forgot

new york city, june 2010

image

image

lines
of morning
corner entrance –
café
grumpy, then
el beit back
patio,
danielle

summer
somehow
though found
a new
(expensive)
sweater, sighing
this weather’s months
away still but
the colour the way
it’s woven (!) laughing
she says –
“it’s okay it’s
a good one it’s
your new york
sweater.”

scented
sunscreen,
i am walking
like i’ve lived
here for years past
stoops, people
strewn,
a casualness
pretending
i could know them
past potted
begonias
assorted herbs past
delis and diners
little italy
walking

in a dress, my
hair turned
over
in a bun, we
with sarah
in squares –
times, herald
one of those
tiny tables
middle
of the street
her accent
taking me there
together
reminiscent our
english village
and waitressing –
what that was
like and has anyone
heard from aude
(?)

expressways
and i think of
brooklyn queens,
an album i confess
i never listened to.
jacob riis beach
is not as nice
as fort tilden,
i hear
sunburn, rosy
back swimming
in the pacific
in a dress.
ocean thinking
actually
wanting to find
seaglass, pale
those pieces how
gentle
they’ve turned
back home
on north henry –
milkshakes
and aloe,
suntired napping.
then quickly
on the bike down driggs
down twelfth down
kent
avenue, and

there’s a tree
in mccarren park
one i’m beneath
and come back
to a tree it
means something
this one,
to me.

arriving in hunua

weeks
now, a homestead
with a very long
driveway
autumn,
her leaves
a single
sheep, there
sideways
in bones, there
in the corner
of a paddock
“don’t look”
she said.

lachlan
lucas, together
wrapped
in boyhood
in a heap
of compost building
tunnels
in tiny
gum boots
adventuring
down towards
a gypsy caravan,
a shepherd’s
hut, arena
garden in squares
growing rhubarb
and roses
the magnolias
confused, blooming
and some things
are lying down
after summer
finished
and tired

the luminaries
buttonholes
rains
doo-hawg’s
the name
of a border collie
and there are four
cats:

minnie
snuffy
ouchie cat
and mr. pants

quiet weekends
head cold baking
marshmallows
planting
bulbs weeding
the artichokes,
the nasturtiums

sitting outside
on steps, coloured
pencils writing
a letter
to nathan john
to new hampshire
that months later
got sent back

little chaos
reoccurrence
house on fire
(still and still)

low and low
i do what i want
no hair, only
a few small
centimeters
left, those blues
they got to me
and anyways now
i’m a real
peach

shades of green
and florals-
wallpaper,
pink wine
rose apples
how they call dinner
“tea”, discovering
the inside
patterns the
perfume
of feijoas

portland maine, april 2012

image
image

cloudy sleep in laundry
my big red pot
simmering
house dress big
sweatshirt napping
sort
of day
and i always overload
the washing machine

o pioneers!
marie and emil
and alexandra belonging
to the land, brave
bicycle
up munjoy hill
how it suddenly opens-
the view, opens
up the way it widens
suddenly to water
to islands and sail
boats
boba tea and
hairs cross
my cheeks
bright.
bright and warm
just me and willa
and clementines

ahmed playing keys
at blue on saturday
“alabama”
“everything happens to me”

telescoping
connectedness
aiden
yesteryear
lark

oh, and
“things
fall apart.”

new years eve, 2010

swiss beer fondue
german champagne
bûche du noël

small unpackings
the necessary ones
forks and plates
plugging in lamps
arranging
the living room
our mattress still
in the center you
asleep and i’m nudging
whisper hey it’s almost
midnight-

christmas 2013 (hitching in thailand)

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i remember there was a market
just beginning
as we left bangkok
stalls setting
up, streets
closing off

curb waiting
bus to ayutthaya
night arriving
storytelling
on the balcony
which in the morning
i discovered
was painted
peach

by the river
on steps
watching boats
at a table
drinking tea
birdcages
surrounding
looking
looking, trying
not to look

bicycles
past ruins
of stone, palaces
in grass
past lights
lighting trees
market, paying
with little stones

pink elephants
dressed up
we stole away
saw the show
from fields
for free
fireworks, shadows
of actors, a history
the old kingdom
of siam

mango sticky
rice on the side
of the road
got a ride
to ang thong
radio antenna
in air like
pencil lines
hotel corridors
mosquitoes
you are on the phone
to a friend named
lina

sing buri
someone, a kid
called his mother
a teacher, to help
translate
black marker
on cardboard
lines and shapes
new alphabet
someone, her cousin
drove us
to the next town

christmas eve
khlong khlung
7 eleven
taro buns
and rum, VIP
room, roadside
guesthouse

morning
petrol station
i remember
there were windmills
green and yellow
a bird sitting
on top
the yellow

back
of a red pick up
highway
then smaller
mountain roads
scarf around
cold wind
the driver
made a stop
bought us
corn

arriving in li
that curved arch
in shimmers
pillows outside
for prayer
looking for
rooms on backs
of scooters

we are almost
to chiang mai
i remember tall
fountain grass
a rhythm
of sunlight
passing through stems
from a car
window, back
seat closing
eyes once
twice
we are almost there-
to chiang mai

dreaming, november 2011

17big

at someone else’s
house i am falling
asleep, fires
in bedrooms people
yelling-

i am in a car,
a van
an old friend.
is wearing a vest
and grinning
having
the time of our lives
walking down
town i’m not sure
if i’m visiting him
or he me,
the colours
darkened, lights
are dimmed

in london.
passenger seat
almost night my zumi
camera up
to the window
recording it all
passing-
a carnival, trees
a theatre with large
murals passing
in blurs the car
with kayleigh,
she has printed out
maps and i hold them
up and say- see?
london streets
are all curving
and they change names
two three times.

we are going to lunch
at a table with yellow
flowers and i’m trying
to keep them
from falling
into the vase it’s
too big
and the flowers they
are small.

in london still
but it’s india.
a hotel bedroom
underground and i can’t
breathe right.
beds are big
and soft, thick
layers of dust
around windows,
somehow a breeze
coming in.
i’m there with O-lan
from “the good earth”
and i tell her
please, i’d like
to go see the land.
there are people sitting
around now, listening
to me. the room
has bright colours
and everyone is drinking tea.

still they come

one

still they come
little deaths
we have much
to bury, yet –

letter from maine
coffee dark
morning, past
eleven – it’s been
so long, she kept saying
your cat, she said
cancer
darling

our cat darling
thumbs
and tiger stripes.

glancing
around the room
the window covering
my mouth how
it came out, up
through corners
knowing
this is part of it –
the finishing
of things.

train, wroclaw to prague

twelve

sometimes people change their minds
and i think of, “how
to disappear completely.”

and
“stéphanie blues”
building watching
for ones i like
in patches looking
like quilts the leaning
ones, about
to fall.

“en gallop”
repeating, rachela
making buttons

i have so many things to tell you.

koh ta kiev

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needles green
come down
on my belly
saying hi, there’s
a pine
up there

sand hair
skin part lizard
and rabbit
this island
robinson crusoe
jungle sounds
driftwood
turned a swing table
ladder – it’s
a playground, at night
plankton twinkles
splashes and
winks

days pass
swim, nap
following
the shade
discovering
a distillery
absinthe tucked
away, paths
a tunnel
of branches
abandoned
fishing boats
coral beach
we’re there
in a tree
with cordon bleu
and fireworks

july 17th, 2006

image

asleep on top of something thin
to music, and
woke up in fever
the window, shade
in places it wasn’t
before, dimmer, wild
field backyard

house alone
washed over, it ran
and tripped
over me this
napping dream,
waking to a hush

kitchen, toast
through the rubbish
looking, something
realized i wasn’t quite
ready to throw

august 5th, 2010

image
image
image

“already
my body is a twilight: solid. gold
at the edge of a larger darkness.
but outside
my window
a summer day is beginning. apple trees
appear, one by one. light is pouring
into the promise of fruit.”
– eavan boland

roger williams park
afternooning
in the swans
paddling
on a lake

walking
japanese gardens
lunching
pita and raita
yellow plums lemon
cookies

lily pads little
bridges, your
camera up close –
blue dragonfly.
swans the ducks
they are brown and we
are feeding them
pepitas we
are strolling
just strolling

in evening
wearing red
yarn tied
up in hair
because i miss some things
about myself
sometimes.

we are reading
the “grean tee” email
couches, taking
turns with pauses
elaborations
together remembering
a beginning
a bedtime
story that one of peter
and wendy yes
that one.

little village

anchor

little village
and room,
slant
window panes
in diamonds
now a waitress spilling
tomato soup

bicycling down
for berries, for
a pie, aude
the au pair
reminding me of my very
first friend
valerie.

aude, always
in red –
hat and cheeks
fierce sorrow

luc tuymans
memory and
its failure

loft

loftwindowbig
loftstudiobig

moving day
rachela’s loft
making walls
of bedsheets
floral, calico
i remember
there are birds called wendies

shopping cart sounds
in night, and morning
bus ride, LAX
steetlight fire
flies pass on windows
and the palms
like black balloons

summer warms in february
1st street to glendale
overheating car green
leaking to the curb
groceries, immigrants
cans of beans
kidney, pinto

friend in red, singing
1920’s roxy
heart i was driving there –
the unknown theatre –
lost in hollywood, that
drumming melodic pedro
and his lion

pretty sure that was the night
i in white and you
said you know you look
an angel

tübingen, 2007

tubingenbig

fionabig

fiona,
with allan poe, and
typewriter

sometimes days
are just colours, and
two people

meeting there, crossing
street hills cobbling
downwards, swinging
chair outside
together and talking of letters,
haikus,
cooking upstairs –
attic kitchen.
to the bakery
for rolls, practicing
practicing my numbers eins
zwei

fiona wears black and speaks excellent french.
i can’t help it, fiona
that i do not have any lovers.

philadelphia songs

philadelphia

washington square, twice
sore ankles
streets named after trees
i wanted to sit by
the delaware river
think about those bridges
bright yellow in
pittsburgh

leaving poland

eleven

leaving poland
strawberry pierogi
andrzej tylkowski postcards
animal stickers
a jazz band finding us
forgetting to go to the flea market
melting snow
nina simone
beirut
grotowski 2009
boiling water
birds.

los angeles, 2007

rachelkirsmetro

melancholy play
hollywood
metro, sierra villa
park and ride
lolita

lucerne, april

castleyellowflowersbig

i have asked spring
please, to keep
me take
me with her
when leaving
wherever it is 
she goes.

bangkok, december

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now there is gold
bordering, edges
curving up like
calligraphy

 river transport
long tails
a city dressed
in plants in greens
blues lady
boys

khao san cattle
follow me through
upstairs down
back door i know
a place this alley that
pad thai

high, fourth
floor new merry
house and karaoke
underneath
on the balcony
watching the taxis
the lights on that
christmas tree, there
across the street

autumn, rhode island

treesbig

pumpkinsbig

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swan point, cemetery
leaves like butter
flies twirling
in air, as girls do
in pretty dresses.
and the sugar maples
they are lit up.

to johnston,
a patch, picking
a long island cheese
a cinderella

how to keep
this autumn
little shivers
nose sniffles
and you say my hair
sometimes
is the colour
of copper

los angeles, 2010

kirstenbig

meganpregnant2big

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steve picks me up
grey toyota, hair
coloured
of california daytime.
sirens loud,
surrounding.
to highland park, ash
street, to megan’s stomach
stretching to hold
something round, like
the sun’s 
inside.

baby names –
elouise or pony.
freaks and geeks
potato salad
pinkberry

late mornings, afternoons
i think, hymn
california – cotton
woods, juniper
golden hills, everything
dry, but ripe how badly
i wanted to leave
four years, two years
ago, now sitting
looking around missing
it all

bending 110 freeway
taco trucks
citrus

we are driving to altadena
wind blowing the hollow
in my ears, and the one story
bungalows pass
like a filmstrip
with wind chimes
and tired paint.

cheese store of silverlake
the little alley of fairbanks
place, a place
of her own, a breakfast
nook, cats, something
stitched, big red
poppy, leaning
against the wall.

a patio, a view
you can even see
the hollywood sign.
the front room is dim
a record playing
couch low, we sit
and she tells me
in a maroon dress
what happened
her weeks
on heroine.

outside it is bright
she is shading her eyes.

meadowlarks
small sorrow
pilgrim
enduring
recover
sequoia

october 10th, 2012

28

poetess
low contrast
car troubles
controlled hallucinations
the autobiography of a fever

maine, january 2012

5big

field notes
yellow threaded quilts
groceries
champagne
copycats
clouded
pinhole

at last, snow
plows fumbling
down streets

a memory theatre
things by my bedside
teabags, barrettes
things in the corner
all the same colour
suitcase, type
writer wooden box
bright pale blue, there-
like siblings.

snow funny under
in my navy madeline
coat, on ice shuffling
today missing
my dad.

memories of the future
how remembering one thing
is at least two
things.

monet- boulevard st.denis,
argenteuil, in winter (1875)

four thousand islands

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watching ants
and the mekong, always
there just
there-

bicycle, yellow
watermelon
island hops khong,
then det-
something i heard,
“a tree between trees”

first days

mel3

mel2

mel1

cottages all
together, touching
shoulders –
sitting down
in rows named
albion.

iron lacework
brenda on walks
the beginning
of eucalypts,
the beginning
of tree shadows
in general.