A small rain down can rain but I am not outside, beside an aluminum mouth of a gushing gutter, watching the city sluiced in the casual event of falling water. Nor am I standing in a shale of rubble, circled by dead children’s toys, or crouched in a buckling raft, crusted in cold salt […]
Whatever is the opposite of keening, that is the sound the waves make, trawling themselves across the long shallow shore in Ogunquit, Maine: home, in another century, to fishermen who built a tidewater basin, furrowing the soft marshland, digging a channel to give safe harbor to boats named “Susan Bee,” “Clementine,” and “Anna Mae.” In […]
The dead, they are always descending like mustachioed men in Magritte’s painting, so many bowler hats sailing through a pale blue Belgian sky. Heavy souls—freighted with evil, leaden sorrows, or the insomniac stare of bald regret—crash all night against the stone gates of Hades and stumble, wrecked, along the […]
I never meant it to be permanent: this body-house of wood, this foliating iron lung, these brachia of branched leaves that were my exeunt and leave-taking. I did not intend to remain a tree forever: perhaps for one or two eras of Apollo’s high-octane testosterone, the nymph mania that sparks […]
Heather Treseler talks about her poem Diagnosis.
Heather Treseler talks about her poem Vacationary.
A low fog lifts from the lake, catching the bungalows on the opposite shore dreaming like tree-houses. Mornings here are so nearly the same, a breeze scrolling to bright sun-wash, they’re practically a brand of New Hampshire, one featured in Classic New England Vacations. Just yesterday, we thought of boating. I enthused about canoes. You […]
Between certainties, or in the zip code of a wholly new misunderstanding, we fall to sleep. Channel swimmers grateful for the roughening cheek of sand. And wake to salted tongues as after a night’s long ebb tide of lust or fresh floral cut of sorrow. If I knew household harmonics did not require covert […]
