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The Quicken Tree (American Poets Continuum Series, Vol. 33) by Bill Knott
Steal Away : Selected and New Poems by C.D. Wright
Found Style: Vintage Ideas for Modern Living by David Butler
The Selected Poems of Li Po by Bai Li
Part Asian, 100% Hapa by Kip Fulbeck
Dime Store Erotics (Gerald Cable Book Award Series) by Ann Townsend
Beyond Reason: Art and Psychosis Works From the Prinzhorn Collection by Laurent Busine
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posted by AuthorsandExperts at 10:16 pm (EST) on Mar 22, 2009
by Henri Cole
My father lived in a dirty dish mausoleum,
watching a portable black-and-white television,
reading the Encyclopedia Britannica,
which he preferred to Modern Fiction.
One by one, his schnauzers died of liver disease,
except the one that guarded his corpse
holding a tumbler of Bushmills.
"Dead is dead," he would say, an anti-preacher.
I took a plaid shirt from the bedroom closet
and some motor oil—my inheritance.
Once, I saw him weep in a courtroom—
neglected, needing nursing—this man who never showed
me much affection but gave me a knack
for solitude, which has been mostly useful.
Reprinted from Blackbird and Wolf © 2007 by Henri Cole
posted by BenMarcus at 12:38 pm (EST) on Apr 10, 2007