Anthony Parker

With a precise hand, palm
facing the earth, I'd stretch
my arm out the car window,
convinced that at the right speed
...

You were back in town on
my mother's birthday. Half
drunk, I walked to your
house, stumbling down the street.
...

Every woman should know
the phases of the moon, ache
in the thick infancy of rain—
every morning stretch and shake
...

Down along the shore waves reach
and touch the black volcanic rocks, splashing,
let into places a body isn’t. Hung low,
stars waltz the entire zodiac in weightless
...

Stars are exploding in my chest—
a miracle, a mystery with no
hands. My body is a grave—all cool
fruits and stray bones, the geometry of
...

The television is on, sound just
above a whisper—an incandescent
flickering glow, a campfire manufactured
in Japan. Outside, a handful of stars
...

The other night I had this dream
where you were crying diamonds—
perfectly shaped as though someone
just thought them up. You held them
...

Out of smoke, out of clouds, I pulled down
these words for you—rearranged dried coral
to spell your name, bartered fire from the sun,
pulled the accents from overheard voices and laid
...

Late one afternoon we were lying on
the grass, you and I in the park, reveling in the
thinly veined wonder that is your skin—
water-proof, a parallel universe of creams
...

Beautiful: the night—the way streetlights all over
town blossom like electric flowers and hum their
pulse. Boards in the ceiling above us creak like
...

Moonlight through an open window
doesn’t rest on you—it pours itself
on you, hair dragging over your face
...

Yesterday in the produce aisle I stopped,
could smell you all around me. Watermelon

and plum scents met, hands clasping, palms
...