Thanks to all who commented! I got some insights. However, sorry, publisher didn't any as is. She sorta a little liked the middle one, if I retool it.

So here's a new painting. Has nothing to do with a cover.

Ideas for new covers. (All previous were rejected.)

A)



Roman Numeral V)



16a)

You know the drill. Please vote please please.

Hannah and the Ill-fitting Wig


Hannah has dirty
hair, I tell you through

the open window. She is
a dirty blonde. You

shake your head at me,
pushing your shopping

cart as your yellow
lab trudges ahead,

his heavy belly
bobbing from side

to side. You start
to sing about the flag

again, adjusting your
flowered hat, leaving

paper petals with
every unsteady step.

Sometimes I feel Nostalgia
for Places I was Miserable


Everyone operates out of fear. With her
hands, she opens up a hole in the earth

near the roots of the big maple. She lays
a silent bluebird in the hole, pats it.

In the movie version, she places a dried
geranium over the bird's eye -- its head

is tipped to one side, so only the left
eye is showing. Are you feeling

especially needy today? She brushes
leaves over the hole, then rubs

her palms on the thighs of her jeans.
In the movie version, she's wearing

a patchwork skirt. Does this mean
everyone should be forgiven?



Above, the fabulous Bob (not me) at Bowery Poetry.

The Cold

The virus traveled to her blood
after her fingertips brushed the hem

of his coat, he was leaving again
in the middle of the night, the baby

crying, the heat turned off a week ago –
she had collected matches, tried

to empty the throat of the fireplace,
tried to take out the bricks blocking

the chimney with her sewing scissors
and a butter knife so she could pile

a chair or two, perhaps some of his
books, into the fat black mouth
unhinging its jaw like a cartoon snake.

Finally, a new poem in the dry desert of nonpoetry

Learn the Language of Your Meat


Go into the weeds. Find the cow
lying there, open her mouth.

Take out her small voice, stuff
her whispers in your pocket.

Slap her hollowed-out rump
with the flat of your palm,

slap until the dust flies, until
she rises. Lay in the crushed

circle of grass. Put your ear
to the earth, hear the bees

burrowing there. Make your lips
form those shapes, your

tongue an engine of blood
revving against your teeth.

Sorry I've been so absent. I'm moving from Queens to Brooklyn, into a wonderful new apartment and (hopefully) wonderful new life. I've been able to scribble a few drafts of poems here and there, but nothing postworthy, not until, at least, the bedroom is painted and the furniture assembled.

Aubade on Avenue D

Brick, Brick, Brick and
Shingle. Asphalt, pot-hole
of dense, mud-rich water,
torn paper cup, floating,
red plastic lid to a tylenol
bottle, strands of synthetic doll
hair. Iron pole, wire, light
smeared on the side
of a telephone pole. Staples.
Wet paper flapping. Xeroxed
words melting to gibberish.
Hysterical sparrow on top
of a soggy corn muffin.
Bicycle chained with a heavy
chain. Bright shards of yellow
plastic from a broken head
light. Cigarette butts. Smashed
gold lipstick case. Black
plastic grocery bag, trapped
and fluttering, on a chainlink fence.

Reunion, II
after Kiki Smith

all ooze and whimper, they smile
with broken teeth and ask to hold

our hands, they sprout wings and
descend from trees, spiral pencil

marks ascending their necks,
long nails elaborate as jewelry;

in our pocket books, in our rearview
mirrors, they meet our eyes, one pupil

one degree off, one pupil a drowsy
cat's; their souls pour onto paper

like spilt tea onto napkins; as they
claw beneath our collars in some

strange neighbor's kitchen, we are so
embarrassed, we apologize, apologize

My Little Pony


and I float through the open
door, crash into the river

a mouthful of bright noise
and slaughter

the fisherman have brand new
blue nylon nets and they

throw us back once
they realize we don’t have

pearls tucked in our cheeks
or taped between our toes

we are entirely without jewels,
featherless as a newborn pig

I’ve taught him to canter
in five different languages

but something’s changing
in our headwounds, new
growth, sharp teeth

Spontaneous Generation


Ginger tea, scraped from some
humming clump at the bottom

of a glass jar. Hot. Yellow.
Toothy. It stings the palate,

tastes of matted weeds and honey.
An exotic frog could emerge

from such muck, sticking toe
by tentative toe to cardboard

in a humid pet store. Or some-
thing the color of a jewel,

sticky, brightly four-eyed,
beating against the glass

like a drunken engine, some
shining, six-legged god.

The Stars are Yellow, Surrounded by Black


At 6am, I splay my tender feet
on cold pink tile, pretending

I can't remember your name. House
in the palm of my hand. Stink beetle

nestling in my ear, whispering, this
is the way we wash our hands. Skin

color was always SALMON PINK, like
this sky. My families were never

big enough, floated off to one side.
You have to use the whole page,

the teacher said as she gave me a fresh
box of wax. The blues didn't taste

as good as they smelled. When she
asked me to make a face, I drew

your mouth in black, a place
like a locked door, and me
on the wrong side, or under it.

Doe Star Angel


Doe Star Angel,
he said to her after
he was done, his hands
finally tired, one nail ripped.
That's what she heard.
Then he said, don't start,
angel, and she realized
he was worried she might
cry, but she was just hungry
and thinking of the bagel
shop, the one on the corner
with the torn awning,
the windows always steamed
blank, the display cases always
full of pink sweets and flies.

Baby Brother

At times, I miss the days before
your birth, the short cotton dresses

made from pillowcases, stained
ric-rac around the neck and hem,

the powdered hot chocolate I strew
across the counter each morning,

my time on the basement floor
with the fat grumpy cat and Sesame

Street, the way my skin constantly
burst into red when I banged it against

the world. A week after your arrival,
I tried to cover your noisy face in hot

sheets from the dryer. I thought you
would disappear once the fabric was
pulled back; a magic trick I saw on TV.

Big Rewrite

At the Museum of Fire

you stretch arms made of styrofoam
and snow around me

you offer to take my pain away,
quick as a methadone-flavored gumdrop

you whisper into my neck, Don't
worry, nothing's really on fire

as I touch the painted flames along your
knees, I wonder if the guard can hear us

Wilderness

Go to sleep, I whisper to my brother next to me
in the hammock, go to sleep. He keeps jerking

and fussing; he whines ants are crawling in his ears.
I pinch him again. His legs against mine feel sticky

and hot, like he's covered in piss-scented honey.
He rolls over onto my hair, his mouth full of

small sleeping moans. I twist my head away.
I put my fingers over the nape of his small brown

neck and hum, waiting to pinch -- sometimes,
I just like the sound of his shriek. Every few

minutes, branches break in the distance, as if
something heavy is falling and picking itself up.

Altar


I can see my breath.
No windows.

Everything not moving
is painted white. Here,

in your mother's basement,
I lie back on the bed

tucked under silver ducts,
offering the whole mottled

bag of me on these
delicately stained sheets,
bleached and bleached.

New Collage



I had to rush it for a deadline, but it turned out better than I expected.

I am almost recovered from the AWP fever or plague -- sniffles and a general feeling of discontent. Here it is:

Home Surgery


he climbed into the sink, small fists in the tangle
of silverware, the messy oatmeal muck, while
she banged on the window beside the feeder,

creamy wax stuffed with tiny yellow pellets
and sunflower seeds, laughed as the cardinals
startled, filled the yard with flying red and husks:

the bleach bottle under the sink hidden by fake
yellow carnations, thread tangled in their dusty
stems, and how should she hold the needle,

watch Sammie like a hawk, she had said,
her mother, who had taught her to knot
the thread three times and bite instead of cut

I'll be at AWP until Saturday afternoon. Feel free to hunt me down and tell me all the things you always wanted to say.