Marilyn Hacker

Across the street, a girl stands lengthily at the window, smoking and   looking at empty sidewalks, sun-soaked on April first.   I wished the tourists would disappear. Now they’re gone. Watch what you wish for!   In purdah, in quarantine, I dice one more ...

This time, winter comes to Paris on stockinged feet, no fuss, no fireworks,   until she’s layering breath with frost and the pipes with gnarls.   In Vellayani, my parents greet their wedding anniversary   by bracing their windows and ears for Cyclone ...

Driving a flatbed truck of sheep alongside the Qalamoun hills, he   glances at the mountains and thinks of his brothers who are   still in Kirkuk. Once borders were porous, work meant crossings, for those who   are amateur refugees now, inadvertent ...