He holds a lantern at the end of her
driveway. I wouldn’t say lost so much as
condemned and disoriented.
Big Feathered Hats
worn by women a century ago
Since Victor Frankenstein first conjured the monster that assumed his surname in Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, his harrowing creation has assumed countless incarnations.
I nestle with my daughter in her bed in the room painted pink nearly a dozen years ago; half the pink now covered with magazine clippings of this or that star, male and female. Her reading light spots a book in my hands.
In Kimiko Hahn’s latest collection of poems, Mosquito and Ant, she entreats us to follow her through a labyrinthine self-analysis.
I advise a promising student not to settle for flower when hibiscus is more precise.
Sigrid Nunez and Kimiko Hahn reflect upon Nunez’s novel A Feather on the Breath of God, discussing the concepts of woman as storyteller, and writing as crochet.
I am four. It is a summer midafternoon, my nap finished. I cannot find her. I hear the water in the bathroom. Not from the faucet but occasional splashes. I hear something like the bar of soap fall in. I cannot find her.
In Nicaragua / old women / mobilize with sticks and boiling water / again.
The seam was gray as a recollection— / I mean, as that recollection / (even in my motel room)