PEDRO LEMEBEL ~

 

R E A D   M E

Penguin Books, 2024

PHILIP BOOTH ~

Half-Life





3:00 a.m. Back

from the bathroom,

I've lain awake

for an hour. I

was all right at

2:00, most of me's

still O.K. My feet

are down at the end

of the bed, they and

my head and testicles

still seem to be

the right size. But

my hands, clamped

shut like a baby's

fist, are big as

a catcher's mitt,

each thumb's as big

as a fat man's leg.

I can't get any

sound up from my

throat. I grab

for breath, trying

to cry out.

                   Though

she has been dead

for half my life,

my mother — all

her illnesses

still intact — leans

her softness

over my crib,

and tries with-

out words to

hold me. She

tries and tries

to hold me.




_______________________

Philip Booth
Pairs
Penguin, 1994

ARTFUL ~

L I S T E N

R E A D      M E

MARY OLIVER UPSTREAM ~

Penguin 2016

K I R K U S     R E V I E W

Mary Oliver lived for fifty years in Provincetown, MA. and has written beautifully about that location including in this new book with a short essay devoted to Provincetown.

However, perhaps her best essay to Provincetown, to a seashore life, to the sea

will be found in this book and the essay "Bird." 

It's unforgettable.

[ BA ]

TERROIR ~

AS ONE



I remember walking in a field,

so young the black-eyed Susans stared

me in the face, the air so bright

that every flick of grass was clear

and leaves seemed magnified. The flowers

stood tall and swayed — the daisies, Queen

Anne's lace, the Susans, yarrow — thrilled

the day and kept me company;

all level as a yard of water,

and made me feel as one of their

exploding fierce community.





COW PISSING


First the tail begins to stiffen

at its root. The thick base rears and

a warp runs out the length of the

appendage to the dirty hank

and the whole is lifted slightly

to the side, exposing the gray

puckered pussy. But it's how the

back arches up that startles, how

she humps as though bracing against

and backing into something hard,

pressing to release a valve or

tip a cask open. And the stream

that starts comes as though from a hose

not round but flattened by her lips.

Shot on the pasture dirt, the jet

wears out a basin that overflows

into tracks and sprays gold mist on

hooves and grass, shivering rainbows.

When the blast lessens and scalds down

to tatters and drips and is done,

she whips the tail a few times to

knock off the last drops and walks on

to graze. The puddle glistens like

gold wine in the sun, and crackles

as it soaks into the splash track.

The grass sparkles many colors

where the growth will be less for the

libation a while, and then more.





IRONWEED


There is a shade of purple in

this flower near summer's end that makes

you proud to be alive in such

a world, and thrilled to know the gift

of sight. It seems a color sent

from memory or dream. In fields,

along old trails, at pasture edge,

the ironweed bares its vivid tint,

profoundest violet, a note

from farthest star and deepest time,

the glow of sacred royalty

and timbre of eternity

right here beside a dried-up stream.


_________________________


Terroir
Robert Morgan
Penguin Books, 2011

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