poet Linda Gregerson

Linda Gregerson

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Best Poem of Linda Gregerson

My Father Comes Back From The Grave

For Karen

I think you must contrive to turn this stone
on your spirit to lightness.

Ten years.
And you, among all the things of the earth he took

to heart—they weren’t so many after all—bent nearly
to breaking with daily

griefs. The grass
beneath our feet. Poor blades. So

leaned on for their wavering homiletic (pressed for
paltry, perpetual,


Read the full of My Father Comes Back From The Grave

Narrow Flame

Dark still. Twelve degrees below freezing.
Tremor along
the elegant, injured right front

leg of the gelding on the cross-ties. Kneeling
The undersong of waters as she bathes

the leg in yet more cold. [tongue is broken]
[god to me]
Her hair the color of winter wheat.