Ai Ogawa Poems
- Conversation We smile at each other and I lean back against ...
- Grandfather Says "Sit in my hand." I'm ten. I ...
- Riot Act, April 29, 1992 I'm going out and get something. I ...
- Passage For Allen Ginsberg Sunflowers beside the railroad ...
- Motherhood, 1951 Dear Saint Patrick, this is Peggy, Or maybe...
- Cuba, 1962 When the rooster jumps up on the windowsill ...
- Nothing But Color I didn't write Etsuko, I sliced her ...
Florence Anthony was a National Book Award winning American poet and educator who legally changed her name to Ai Ogawa. She won the National Book Award for Poetry for Vice.
Ai, who has described herself as Japanese, Choctaw-Chickasaw, Black, Irish, Southern Cheyenne, and Comanche, was born in Albany, Texas in 1947, and she grew up in Tucson, Arizona. Raised also in Las Vegas and San Francisco, she majored in Japanese at the University of Arizona and immersed herself in Buddhism.
She has received awards from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and various universities; she has also been a frequent reader-performer of her ... more »
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We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the ...