My refrigerator is covered with stuff, out of a lack of any bulletin board and a belief that fridges are where magnets should go. Covering much of the space and held by the many magnets are magazine-torn poems.
Many, of course, come from The New Yorker, so when friend Katie said she clipped poems from its pages, I got inspired to mention my fridge rips here. I’ve been thinking about throwing them out, if just to start over. But NYer poetry hasn’t done much for me recently. And I like the pages when I’m making dinner. Like the pots on the stove, they give distance on the day. The steam makes all of the specifics matter less.
“In a Haystack,” Andrea Cohen.
“Clouds,” Charles Simic.
“The Indivisibles,” Campbell McGrath.
“Element It Has,” Glyn Maxwell.
“Oppression,” Marvin Bell.
“Wise,” Elizabeth Macklin.
“Here You Are,” Michael Blumenthal.
“Troy,” Meghan O’Rourke.
“Our Flowers,” Barbara Ras.