What if this house were every house
we'd inhabited, lost friends
to startle us from the doorway,
each broken dish seamlessly mended,
This collision of teeth, of tongues and lips,
is like feeling for the door
in a strange room, blindfolded.
Cold as a slap, this indigo sea,
where we clamber on blonde-fringed rocks,
where someone's tarted up the fishing shacks
with red paint and artful nets.
The worst for him was his friend turned wolf,
and the blood that splattered as he ran. The worst
for us: the hospital, his upper lip tugged back
Poet April Lindner earned her BA from the University of New Hampshire, an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, and a PhD from the University of Cincinnati. Skin (2002), her first collection of poetry, won the Walt McDonald First Book Prize.
Lindner has edited three anthologies: Contemporary American Poetry (2004), with R.S. Gwynn; a bilingual antholog ...