You may think I write to move you
but I write to move myself from
one place to another.  The words that are missing
from this poem are somewhere else. The salt that is missing
from the borsch is somewhere else.  The mountains
that are missing from Armenia are somewhere else.
I am a creator of nothing spectacular
with the power of invisibility.
I am a homemaker
at my writing desk.


For her, poetry was

a final cry into the void,

but she was not Armenian.

She did not have one hundred

years to tell her cries go


I prefer to fabricate

bridges from words, stroll out

to the center of my creation

and look down. Under me, tiny men

are smoking and playing backgammon 

in my house.  There is a pomegranate

on my nightstand and the window is open.

Charents is taunting me across time,

"The bridge you stand on is not real;  it is

just like you, made from nothing

but a void and English”