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“If it comes to that,” he said, “there’ll be no preventing it.” He uttered it as I listened. Had I got it right, hearing him? “If it comes to that,” is what he said, and, as if talking to himself, went on about how there’d be no preventing it. He came to that conclusion, saying it in a slow way of coming to that, whatever that was it might come to before not being prevented—and as if such a thing were for him the unthinkable, and would prevail, if it came to that. And while listening more closely now to what he said, I realized if no one paid him heed, it would be as if he hadn’t said it—if it came to that—and would then not be prevented from falling to forces known to care little for what he said, even if they heard it, their being wily and forceful enough to make sure it would come to that.

The time is come, I must depart from thee, ah famous city; I never yet to rue my smart, did find that thou had’st pity. Wherefore small cause there is, that I should grieve from thee to go; But many women foolishly, like me, and other moe, Do such a fixèd fancy set, on those which least deserve, That long it is ere wit we get away from them to swerve. But time with pity oft will tell to those that will her try, Whether it best be more to mell, or utterly defy. And now hath time me put in mind of thy great cruelness, That never once a help would find, to ease me in distress. Thou never yet would’st credit give to board me for a year; Nor with apparel me relieve, except thou payèd were. No, no, thou never did’st me good, nor ever wilt, I know. Yet am I in no angry mood, but will, or ere I go, In perfect love and charity, my testament here write, And leave to thee such treasury, as I in it recite. Now stand aside and give me leave to write my latest will; And see that none you do deceive of that I leave them till.

After Seferis Since we still had a little Of the rusk left, what fools To eat, against the rules, The Sun’s slow-moving cattle, Each ox huge as a tank — A wall you’d have to siege For forty years to reach A star, a hero’s rank. We starved on the back of the earth, But when we’d stuffed ourselves, We tumbled to these delves, Numbskulls, fed up with dearth.

At the top of a hill each morning, I wait for the bus by the donut store. Its pink sign looks hot, curls, like a rope, a stem to a brain. You turn toward a jade at the height of your neighborhood, stop at a light in its gut. The sun starts to seep up, reaching all grasses and grooves of the city. A white bus with black windows passes. A few minutes later, the city bus arrives like a room. It crawls warm and dull to the west edge, breathing its heat, a few baby hands warming wide glass. The billboard at my stop displays a large number to call. A man walks his sniffing dog below it, sharp legs brushing wild onion. At the base of the hill, I enter my code, push the gray gate open, allow the worn loop of my bag down my arm, walk to my station. I drop the metal end of a hose into a bucket, turn the tough faucet. Traveling after the sound, the cold rushes out full force from the rubber, breaking into itself, interrupting and filling the round plastic space. Hungry, I pick up the water.

O happy dames, that may embrace The fruit of your delight, Help to bewail the woeful case And eke the heavy plight Of me, that wonted to rejoice The fortune of my pleasant choice; Good ladies, help to fill my mourning voice. In ship, freight with remembrance Of thoughts and pleasures past, He sails that hath in governance My life while it will last; With scalding sighs, for lack of gale, Furthering his hope, that is his sail, Toward me, the sweet port of his avail. Alas! how oft in dreams I see Those eyes that were my food; Which sometime so delighted me, That yet they do me good; Wherewith I wake with his return, Whose absent flame did make me burn: But when I find the lack, Lord, how I mourn! When other lovers in arms across Rejoice their chief delight. Drowned in tears, to mourn my loss I stand the bitter night In my window, where I may see Before the winds how the clouds flee. Lo! what a mariner love hath made of me! And in green waves when the salt flood Doth rise by rage of wind, A thousand fancies in that mood Assail my restless mind. Alas! now drencheth my sweet foe, That with the spoil of my heart did go, And left me; but, alas! why did he so? And when the seas wax calm again To chase fro me annoy, My doubtful hope doth cause me pain; So dread cuts off my joy. Thus is my wealth mingled with woe, And of each thought a doubt doth grow; “Now he comes! Will he come? Alas, no, no!”

Dear Mother // I apologize for these instructions regarding my belated death // but police keep pestering parents on where to shake their child’s ashes // fuck that // Dance & laugh my ashes into the volcanoes [volcanoes look like Earth’s pimples // about to burst] Dear Mother // I hope neither of us dies but rather // we drift into alzheimers together like Abuela years ago // We can walk out of the house in our bathrobes // waving at police cars & thinking they’re taxis taking fathers home // Dear Mother I haven’t told you but bombs in Chelsea were so close to me last fall // I fell& prayed to Holy Nuns of the Erectile Dysfunction Committee but still // I’ll never understand why // God made something so beautiful as the sun // on the ridge // to be blinding Dear Mother // I’ve been much too slow to say thank you The word twisted on my tongue // I stutter to say th-thanks!! & maybe it’s my accent // unable to pronounce refrigrator En español //refrigerador// As if our language was a child who wet the bed from being tickled too much // & if we only speak one language // can we name her Joy // Dear Mother I’ve read the credit report // & America fiscally sponsored the Civil War in El Salvador // where men had genitals cut off stuffed into their mouths // their heads decapitated & placed between their legs // Tio saw all his friends // students slumped on chain link fences // after marching outside the university As a child // I never thought how difficult it must’ve been to pick the heads of daisies with me // by the swimming pool Each petal pulled // I’d recite //he loves me//he loves me not God must // in the most bloated nights // the fullest nights God must’ve known // you’d follow me outside “heaven’s gates” What an oxymoron // There must be a heaven that’s boundless & unbridled // where we can seek asylum // Dear Mother // please teach me how to hold the sorrow // without losing my arms

Sung at the Completion of the Battle Monument, July 4, 1837 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set today a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

By a peninsula the painter sat and Sketched the uneven valley groves. The apostle gave alms to the Meek. The volcano burst In fusive sulphur and hurled Rocks and ore into the air— Heaven’s sudden change at The drawing tempestuous, Darkening shade of dense clouded hues. The wanderer soon chose His spot of rest; they bore the Chosen hero upon their shoulders, Whom they strangely admired, as The beach-tide summer of people desired.

Pillows & ribbons harness barefoot friends, haughty sisters & smiles; mothers watch, snoring. Dirty Jeep, broken January; darkness steals my grief. I cannot imagine something more fragile than marriage. You held my hand. We listened to the Callas arias on our porch. You kept rewinding the love song back to the beginning to the place where she saings,Certainly not today. Leaf shadows tent walls. My tongue traces tattoos & scars. Strange shirts mingle in the dryer. Tangled sand, uncomfortable legs, wasted days spent memorizing the body I'd soon share. Bride, bridge, bridle: all signs said, Don't wife her. I have learned how to hollow beginnings, rewind homes & wedding veils. Your drool, the doorknob, clumsy knots. Today the map is mortified. In bed, polka dots, miscarriage. Weather changes leaves, fragile-making. (not even divorcing in the eyes of the law:dissolving) I remember my sorrow at finding ants housed in my mother's peonies. When we moved, the new residents tore out all her flower beds, the strawberry patch & the treehouse. I drove you there to show you. You held my hand.

You can never tell By the looks of a frog How high it can leap, Said her Auntie Ott. Haley's hair flips up and down As she moves in her hard shoes, Her leather coat for winter Is lengthy and sways, some stains Mottling the bottom— Elegant windows in decline That at one time One could climb through, French imitation Nailed shut for decades. In shadow Pigeons peck in dirty snow Massed against the closest wall. What her hair will look like someday, She surmises. But otherwise Isn't troubled by the future. Don't walk like a duck, Men don't like it, said Auntie Ott. Not necessarily, responded her grandmother, As she brushed a crumb onto a saucer— Playing cards, stories of earlier poverty. As a girl she pretended To be as worried as they Whether Bobby would be drafted And killed in the war. Maybe she's important in art Or decoration, supposes the student Adjusting his pack— As the light changes, he steps out But she banks around the corner Behind him, purseless, gloveless, Passing a restaurant, a coin store, A key shop—owners staring over the street Wishing they were younger. Or lived in an earlier time. Which is partly the fault Of late winter. Clittering ice In trees of Veteran's Park. . . Lightly swinging her arms now, Heading uphill, growing distant, Like a figure studied In Auntie Ott's Utrillo print— Stick-like, scarecrow-like— To her right, a converted house Looking vaguely like a shrunken Monticello. . . Cream-colored barriers Of plowed snow as sun sprays More volume. . . A moment of deception There's not much that can be done, Said the city, when the oaks Were removed for curb repair. The dome fell off the theatre. A policeman peering east, frozen. Just as the museum is shuttered Next to the blank bowling alley (which is our other perspective). Haley has never felt trapped, Though the possibilities, occasionally, Have skirted about like sparrows. A jet crosses the sky. Followed by its vibration. What she found sustaining She learned in college. Where she goes is no one's business Either. Neither is she worshipped And adored—Auntie Ott Would be dismayed. Though not entirely