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Category archive for: Sean Thomas Dougherty

Dear Tiara

I dreamed I was a mannequin in the pawnshop window

   of your conjectures.

I dreamed I was a chant in the mouth of a monk, saffron-robed

   syllables in the religion of You.

I dreamed I was a lament to hear the deep sorrow places

   of your lungs.

I dreamed I was your bad instincts.

I dreamed I was a hummingbird sipping from the tulip of your ear.

I dreamed I was your ex-boyfriend stored in the basement

   with your old baggage.

I dreamed I was a jukebox where every song sang your name.

I dreamed I was an elevator, rising in the air shaft

   of your misgivings.

I dreamed I was a library fine, I’ve checked you out

   too long so many times.

I dreamed you were a lake and I was a little fish leaping

   through the thin reeds of your throaty humming.

I must’ve dreamed I was a nail, because I awoke beside you still

   hammered.

I dreamed I was a tooth to fill the absences of your old age.

I dreamed I was a Christmas cactus, blooming in the desert

   of my stupidity.

I dreamed I was a saint’s hair-shirt, sewn with the thread

   of your saliva.

I dreamed I was an All Night Movie Theater, showing the

   flickering black reel of my nights before I met you.

I must’ve dreamed I was gravity, I’ve fallen for you so damn hard.

from Sasha Sings the Laundry on the LineFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

The Day Biggie Smalls Died

(aka Christopher Wallace, March 7, 1997)

It was windless on Long Island Sound:

The weather that kills

from somebody else’s life.

A note cut like Thelonious Monk

conjured, accidental beats,

shining texts certified diamond

disappeared—

Brooklyn grieved

five songs in his head

he never wrote down.

The DJ’s discs spinning radiant

mythological badness.

A pair of stone prayers

attempting flight.

For hunger swung clean.

For hunger’s one-track wail,

he stood. To know him

by his susurrations.

He blew seamless.

A city named breath.

The Black Frank White.

Becoming the traffic

to chance anything.

His dizzyingly adagio

delivery, a murmurous

dictionary, wreathed.

A torn riddle.

from Broken HallelujahsFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2007
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Dear Pistachio

My dear impertinent pistachio,

my lady-slipper’s largesse,

my eucalyptus, my Calypso bent calla lily,

my earth-cauled cauliflower,

O my babushka’d cabbage,

my dear ragamuffin ragweed—

my heliotropical sunflower,

my honeyed locust,

my vituperative violet, my delicately cloaked

artichoke—my lima bean,

Lie down my shady lady-fern, my blue

bell, my

willow, my rapturous

rain-washed

radish.

from Broken HallelujahsFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2007
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.