Ira Sadoff Poems
|1.||My Father's Leaving||12/3/2015|
|2.||A Few Surprising Turns||9/24/2016|
|3.||Once I Could Say||9/24/2016|
|5.||My First Roses||9/24/2016|
|6.||On the Day of Nixon's Funeral||9/24/2016|
|8.||Oklahoma City: The Aftermath||9/24/2016|
|11.||My Mother's Funeral||12/17/2014|
Comments about Ira Sadoff
The shaft of narrative peers down.
The soul's a petrified fleck of partridge this October.
Mud-spattered, it thinks it's brush, it thinks
it's one with the brush when God aims
just below its feathers. It's too late to raise the soul,
some ossified conceit we use to talk about deer
as if we were deer, to talk about the sun, as if the cold
autumn light mirrored our lover asleep in the tub.
Nevertheless, I want to talk about it. Those scarred bodies
on the hospital table, they're white chalk children use
to deface the sidewalk. The deer fed in the ...