Woven With each conversation and passing day,the selvedge unravels, taking the selfin singular and pluralized form.You’ve watched the loom,how it reminded you of a silent harpwaiting for a seraph’s strum,in anticipation, the genesis of intricaciesvillage scenes, hunts, foliage,apocalypses, droughts, miraculousdraughts of fish, mythical creaturesand life on nebulas, sprawlingsometimes succinct narratives,made by blunt needles, ready eyes openfollowed by the distance of a strand,and turning skeinthe warp and weft of parallels,silken convergences,umber, golden, persimmon and onyx,threads in shades of skin.     Gina Ferrara lives and writes in New Orleans. Her poems have appeared in Tar River Poetry, Dovecote, and The Poetry Ireland Review among others. Her latest collection, Amiss, is forthcoming…

On Goleta Pier High tide, no room to walkalong the beach. I head outover the splintered planks,empty but for a hundred pigeons,a handful of young men fishing,killing time, having nothingbetter to do. . . .              at the end,the pier angles toward the heartof Santa Cruz, an island floatingon channel mist . . . beyond whichthe Chumash believed the deadpassed into paradise througha western gate. . . .                      I stop a minute,thinking of my wife in Heliopolis,visiting where her grandparentsand her mother, as a child,lived in another world . . .and where the Temple of…

Buddies There’s the one your wife can’t stand,and there’s the one whose wifecan’t stand you, and there’sthe one whose wife can’t standyour wife, and the one whose wifeyour wife can’t stand, and the onewhose wife you can’t stand, no,be honest—you hate that bitch.Can you see the pattern here?Is it coincidence that feond (fiend)and freond (friend), both masculineagent nouns, were often pairedalliteratively in Old English? Is itfor this that the drinking hornsof Heorot must stand mead-less andthe grease-slicked flesh of feastersin the firelight unilluminated go?How many best men bested, howmany best-laid plans shoved downthe gangway aft of a sinkingfriendship because yougot it wrong, because your tongueslipped or you glanced, too intentlyor…

Poem in Which I Married Young and Stayed in My Hometown I never became a poet because, well, who has time?It was a kiddish, indulgent dream—I know that now.Each morning I read The Academy of American Poets’poem-a-day in my inbox, and honestly, I only understandabout a third of them. I hate pretense and obscuremythology almost as much as I hated being married.I was a restless bride and soon started catting around.My husband divorced me when other wives called methe town slut. But in their whispers I heard a tingeof envy. I let my husband have the kids. I know—what kind of mother does that? A motherwho thought she wanted to…

The Garden Boston is the middle of my life.The thatched roof over the middle of my lifeAnd the fire turning in the middle of my life Are yours. To be cold there in our cornerBedroom—the evening whir of an electric heaterThat can’t forstall the inevitable   Nor’easters like violins, Anxiety lickingHer length by the clock, Orion and his clubPassing silently over—   With promises deep and as far away as spring,Where the pink bulb of a hot water bottle you placeBetween us heats us like a coal   Drawn from the bed of heat itself: to be coldAnd find warmth, a wall blank in the early morningThe sprig of moonrise…

Good Friday It’s almost Easter herein Elsewhere and the machinesare doing all the work: washing, sweeping,   heating still while I haunt my homeuseless as a second thought.I will never reach the end   of this novel. I will fail to emptythe diaper pail. I will eat lunch standingover the sink and it will taste like   nothing at all. Even the excursionsare broken. The highway turnsand clovers over and under   and over. At the filling stationwhile the car fills itselfI will pass once more   on the opportunity to wipethe beetles from my windshieldin favor of staring south   and if a stranger were to ask me just…