Off to Maryland tomorrow to visit Emily's family: her brother and sister-and-law have a brand-new pair of twins.

Here's a Lisa Fishman poem that caught my eye going through her book Dear, Read at the Bookery this evening:

To Aristotle

I did go lame in the Spring

My sleeping sister went deaf

Our father who could talk to ghosts lost his hands

& the bride wore yellow and danced in circles

The brown-eyed Susans on the hillside

marked the occasion

haphazardly growing wild in the rupture of the unities

A pomo pastoralist without a doubt, and an heir of Dickinson, bursting Circumference. Here's the poem immediately following:

Fires

It was sassafras we gathered late,
like a deadline, in the summer—
just the leaves, the lemon-colored stems of which we sucked
on what felt like "the far edge of the woods"

Meanwhile the kindling lay ungathered, and trillium grew
     visible at the bases of trees