Miriam Levine: Ego Is Not Your Amigo: Cop to It, Mim
You love the language of Twelve Step meetings—
don’t drink even if your ass falls off,
shitty committee, issues in the tissues,
attitude of gratitude, stinkin thinkin, dry drunk
Miriam Levine: They Call It Menopause
my brain
lit up with fantasies in
which I was dominant, a top,
not on men but women.
My thrusts were cruel.
Miriam Levine: Let’s Go
That out queen
Mark Morris, hefty as he is, dances the role of Queen
Dido to measures of Purcell’s opera and, flashing his
long arms, makes Dido’s suicide lyrical.
Miriam Levine: Surfer at Wellfleet
It’s freezing
in the afterglow when he finally rises on his one long ride home.
Miriam Levine: Invisible Kisses
And survivors with numbers tattooed on their arms, straight as a
bookkeeper’s sum,
the ink indelibly blue, unlike the blessedly changing ocean.
Miriam Levine: Daylight Savings
There’s more light than anyone would need.
At six o’clock the sky is bright.
I have my friend’s last poem to read.
Miriam Levine: Candlewood
We go into the dark and the dark opens.
Boats tipped with light and moon on the water.
Miriam Levine: Beauty Secrets of the Dead
Jen who never read anything
but bills and Sunday papers
comes back from the dead educated.
Miriam Levine: On the Steps of the Miami Beach Cinematheque
Soon I’d be eighty. My hip ached,
the thumb he kissed bent with arthritis.
His scent was lime, and the nape
of his neck smooth as summer jade.
