Among those collected materials, I found a loose page—a translation of a romantic poem (a duet if sung) that Hughes simply named, “Old Uzbek Poem.” Actually, to say, “I found it,” is too easy. There was a magic in my stumbling upon it, the process of reading, of holding this manuscript moment in my hand and dwelling in his handwriting.
is always a sightless gamble. At night he dreams
of hands closing tight about her throat,
this poisoned root we must cast out.
My mother says nothing
and looks away, a worse
kind of violence.
Not all kill their hosts
Think of the morgue
Providing room and board
“giant planets in the outer reaches, [leave] plenty of room
for smaller ones to lurk undetected in the warmer inner regions—”
whether parents are really failed stars—
telescopic, mirrored and warped—