Ange Mlinko

The New York Review of Books - - Contents - —Ange Mlinko


Was it you, pre­sent­ing in the evening bougainvil­lea as a hum­ming­bird again,

you volup­tuary, dual febrile wings ashine as a seam­stress’s spool,

hov­er­ing over the brachts with power tools to fix a beam or caulk the cracks?

Was it you that sol­dered one emer­ald frog to its oleagi­nous polder

and a Polyphe­mus moth flat­tened like peanut-but­tered toast points on the foot­path?

That es­paliered to Orion —bend­ing back­wards— one night heron?

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