Find and share the perfect poems.
In the Atlantic Ocean she found
the animals sensitive
to light, vibration, and touch.
The plume worm blossoms
sucking themselves in
when a hand passed over.
In bed it was a different
story. She would find the worm
and its tentacles and pull
them out one long sea
thread at a time.
From Rodent Angel (NYU Press, 1997) by Debra Weinstein. Copyright © 1997 by Debra Weinstein. Used with the permission of the author.
That evening we took a bath
and held each other in bed
a little longer. When the last,
slant of your face was gone, I was a train
traveling north China alone.
I want civil endings: let no lover ever leave me
at Wuhan Station in Hubei Province on a night
full of red neon and chaos, with bells and
chickens and no English, wishing me
love and good luck.
She was for masturbation,
for getting to know yourself,
sexually. She caressed
her leg as she spoke. She sensed
unresolved conflict, Oedipal
strivings. Her own daughter,
she said, would walk
naked in her bra, try to take
her place on bed. This was nothing
to cry about. Every girl
wanted what mother had, wanted
her mother. She had my parents
in analysis and group. I would hear
1.
There is the alphabet of hope
and the alphabet of despair.
The alphabet of despair
with its three-letter diseases.
The alphabet of hope
with its three-letter cures.