Lucie Brock-Broido Poems
|4.||Currying the Fallow-Colored Horse||10/24/2017|
|6.||Father, in Drawer||10/24/2017|
|7.||Infinite Riches in the Smallest Room||10/24/2017|
|9.||A Girl Ago||10/24/2017|
|10.||Freedom of Speech||10/24/2017|
|11.||Meditation on the Sources of the Catastrophic Imagination||10/24/2017|
|12.||Two Girls Ago||10/24/2017|
|13.||You Have Harnessed Yourself Ridiculously to This World||10/24/2017|
|15.||Did Not Come Back||10/24/2017|
|18.||After the Grand Perhaps||10/24/2017|
|19.||How Can It Be I Am No Longer I||5/14/2015|
Comments about Lucie Brock-Broido
How Can It Be I Am No Longer I
Winter was the ravaging in the scarified
Ghost garden, a freak of letters crossing down a rare
Path bleak with poplars. Only the yew were a crewel
Of kith at the fieldstone wall, annulled
As a dulcimer cinched in a green velvet sack.
To be damaged is to endanger—taut as the stark
Throats of castrati in their choir, lymphless & fawning
& pale. The miraculous conjoining
Where the beamless air harms our self & lung,
Our three-chambered heart & sternum,
Where two made a monstrous
Braid of other, ravishing.
To damage is an animal ...
Father, in Drawer
Mouthful of earth, hair half a century silvering, who buried him.
With what. Make a fist for heart. That is the size of it.
Also directives from our DNA.
The nature of his wound was the clock-cicada winding down.
He wound down.
July, vapid, humid: sails of sailboats swelled, yellow boxes
Of cigars from Cuba plumped. Ring fingers fattened for a spell.