Alison Stine Poems

Oh, it was good. I was good. You're so good,
he said. A purple miniskirt and a black
satin string. I smelled like cotton. I smoked
...

We eat nothing now the source
is burning. The flanks of English
cows are black and curved as though
...

It would be beautiful
were it not on my body.
Now the dark softens into red.
...

Only the wolf is smiling. I tell you
this without pretense, without figure.
It is like this: only the wolf is smiling,
...

Sugar dries on paper plates. The cake's
decimated and barely touched. What to do
with the balloons? A few float listlessly,
...

All winter we sat blind, I next to the girl
who loved her scabs, the blood shields
her head gave up, her face a sun of blank
...

The black snake is dead in the road.
In the rising bands of heat, his head
is gone, or nearly, his body divided
by the flat print of tire. Already
...

Animals in the dark are approaching the house
in waves they must have worked out. First,
rabbits who wait in the shadow of the one tree.
...

Only here would snow and low, pale
blossoms mix so easily, blowing foam
which tears at the window, then snuffs
...

God rewards. On the late work day,
the highway whip-flickers. Heat and
cold mixing make a wall. The valley
...