poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

About this poet

Marianne Boruch is the author of eight poetry collections, including Cadaver, Speak (Copper Canyon Press, 2014). She teaches at Purdue University and in the graduate program for writers at Warren Wilson College. Boruch lives in West Lafayette, Indiana.

Snowfall in G Minor

Marianne Boruch
Overnight, it’s pow! The held note
keeps falling. And only seems
slow. Because it’s just 
frozen rain, what’s the big deal? the checker
in Stop and Shop told me.
                                           Save warmth
like stamps. The fade of their color
in the 1920s.  Airmail.  The pilot with his 
skin-tight goggle helmet on his 
miniature head could be 
snow-blind.
                           All heads are small. Mine’s
lost as a thimble 
in this weather. Where 
a finger should be and be 
sewing, every thought 
I ever thunk. 
                               Just this word
thunk. Never used. 
It lands, noisy
metal in a bucket. That’s
the last of it.  No echo
for miles of this
                              snowfall—as in 
grace, fallen from,
as in a great height, released
from its promise.

From Grace, Fallen From by Marianne Boruch. Copyright © 2008 by Marianne Boruch. Published by Wesleyan University Press. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.

From Grace, Fallen From by Marianne Boruch. Copyright © 2008 by Marianne Boruch. Published by Wesleyan University Press. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.

Marianne Boruch

Marianne Boruch

Marianne Boruch is the author of eight poetry collections, including Cadaver, Speak (Copper Canyon Press, 2014). She teaches at Purdue University and in the graduate program for writers at Warren Wilson College. Boruch lives in West Lafayette, Indiana.

by this poet

poem
Someone arranged them in 1620.
Someone found the rare lemon and paid
a lot and neighbored it next 
to the plain pear, the plain
apple of the lost garden, the glass
of wine, set down mid-sip—
don’t drink it, someone said, it’s for
the painting.  And the rabbit skull—
whose idea was that?  There had
poem
Because the body really 
is Mars, is Earth or Venus or the saddest downsized
Pluto, can be booked, bound, mapped then.
Or rendered like something off the bone, fat just under 
the animal skin, to lard, 
cheaper, quicker than butter, like stillness
belies restlessness, like every yes
was or will be not,
poem

                                   —in memory


Eventually one dreams the real thing.

The cave as it was, what we paid to straddle
one skinny box-turned-seat down the middle, narrow boat
made special for the state park, the wet, the tricky

passing into rock