Two Poems


Carlie Hoffman

Listening to Schumann’s Träumerei

The last time I wake in the foreclosed house 
a deer arrives faithfully in the yard.  

Why is it all connected this way, suddenly  
remembering your mustard coat  
running through the park, a sun I followed.  
I am sick and constantly in awe  
of how easily the day spoils.  
I am sick 
and pull my hand through your hair 
wishing to be out of my head.  
Is childhood worth 
, I ask.

You are the deer 
I know, punishing to touch.

Kabbalah for November


This is the afternoon the women dance on the grassy hill, unclothed  
  and untethered as the wolves of Belarus, before the word  
for water appears like a seed of the aftermath, before the lesson 
  of numbers darkens. One woman stretches her shining torso  
into the weather, extends the reach of her palm,  
  safe for a second from the dead 
of winter revealing its prophecy in the almond tree. Another 
  falls backward into matte blue sky.
You can’t see her face, can’t distinguish  
  pain from healing. You have dragged your chair up here 
to learn desire in the movement of muscles bulbous beneath skin, 
  each woman her own unholy architecture, hair blooming  
wild behind her. You have always been the woman in the flooding 
  room, refusing to move out of the way.