~
Above the mountaintops
all is still.
Among the treetops you can feel
barely a breath--
--From "Above the Mountaintops," a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, translated from the German by Rita Dove, The New Yorker (November 13, 2017), p. 63.
To make it right Vermeer painted then painted over
this scene a woman alone at a table the cloth pushed back
rough folds at the edge as if someone had risen
--From "Repentance," a poem by Natasha Trethewey, The New Yorker (November 20, 2017), pp. 66-67.
Near a recently thawed pond, within a long
channel of construction, a man holding a sign.
One side says slow, the other stop.
Joy and sorrow always run like parallel lines.
--From "Signs for the Living," a poem by Didi Jackson, The New Yorker (October 2, 2017), p. 42.
Tonight I found out that I am divorced.
My second try at marriage, and it's through.
Relief is what I feel most, mixed with pain, of course,
remorse, and just plain grief, which makes me think of you,
you who knew such sorrow in your life
and all the ways that love can come undone,
who was the first to call yourself my wife . . .
--From "News of My Divorce Reminds Me of Your Death," a poem by Taylor Mali, Rattle (December 7, 2017).
The media loves pitting women against women: how do you feed your baby, why don't you fit in that dress, disposable diapers last 8 billion years even in the guts of sharks, gold digger, cougar, jailbait, cat fight. On Coney Island, Miki Sudo downed 38 hot dogs in 10 minutes for the national crown.
--From "Mother's Day," a poem by Karen Skolfield, Waxwing, Issue XIII (Fall 2017).
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