Angela Allen


Gold in the Mouth

Among foodies and four wines, we marvel
as the quail egg bubbles in its sabayon bath
with unalloyed luster, joke fondly
that, of course, such food
was not to his taste, not for my father
who ate an ordinary sort of egg,
boiled precisely three minutes Read More


All of Us

She lies down with us
thirteen months after she died.
One eye blinded,
sometimes the wig, last-ditch helmet in her war.
Her single breast, and nearby
shapeless clothes in plastic bags,
designated cast-offs if she got well. Read More