January 12, 2017
by Barbara Crooker
Here, the new world does not exist, lies somewhere
beyond the borders of vegetation, globed fruits:
grapes, melons, apples, the known demarcations.
Somewhere in Corsica, my ancestors
work the land, raise olives, picking them by hand
from twisted trees. Time’s cartographer...
May 3, 2016
is a clothesline hanging
between two trees;
the words, hung by wooden
pegs, move with the wind.
Between the lines, punctuations
of iris, peonies, bleeding hearts,
and a meadow that stretches
as far as the pines. It has been raining
all night. Someone I once loved
appears in t...
March 5, 2016
My grandmother worked for Bonwit Teller’s; we grew up receiving
gifts wrapped in thick shiny paper sprigged with violets, satin ribbons,
didn’t know they were samples, or bonus gifts from cosmetics
after a promotion was over, or even from Filene’s Bargain Basement,