Rishma Dunlop Poems

Oh my city, emerald
buried in ravines, coyotes
prowl your meridians,
...

I slice oranges in the kitchen.
The countertop worn, notched
with the story of the knife.
...

At times I've travelled far from you─
brought to my knees by want
in white rooms in distant cities
...

All winter in stucco on 65th I learned to love
what couldn't speak: what began in milk and
blood. Baby, cat, the man who worked long weeks
away from home. Forty below. My breath before me,
...

The volume of Tolstoy thumbs her open.
She tries to keep the heroine alive.
...

In my dream my father brings me tea on a tray,
chota hazari in the early hours of morning,
like the servant in his boyhood—
...

The air above the city is saturated
with prayers. Like the air in
industrial towns and dreams
...

Chet Baker on the stereo—
I imagine his Caravaggio face, heroin-
ruined in the single spot, as the horn comes
...