Books
  • Furious Lullaby (Crab Orchard Series in Poetry)
    Furious Lullaby (Crab Orchard Series in Poetry)
  • Names Above Houses (Crab Orchard Series in Poetry)
    Names Above Houses (Crab Orchard Series in Poetry)
  • A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry
    A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry

  • Requiem for the Orchard (Akron Series in Poetry)
    Requiem for the Orchard (Akron Series in Poetry)

Anthologies

Oliver's work can also be found in the following anthologies.

  • Tilting the Continent: Southeast Asian American Writing
    Tilting the Continent: Southeast Asian American Writing
  • Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation
    Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation
  • Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond
    Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond
  • From the Fishouse: An Anthology of Poems that Sing, Rhyme, Resound, Syncopate, Alliterate, and Just Plain Sound Great
    From the Fishouse: An Anthology of Poems that Sing, Rhyme, Resound, Syncopate, Alliterate, and Just Plain Sound Great
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« 2013 Poem-A-Day: Day 1 | Main | The Loft Mentor Series »

Two Erasures

Labyrinth 1

 

 

The boy in the labyrinth holds a torch before him. He cannot see his shadow, which, behind him swims in a somnambulant glaze. Winds tighten around the boy's body and his torch so that the universe lowers its eye to this den beneath the earth. Blossoms of fire flit from crevasses. The boy thinks, to be guided through the labyrinth is to be guided by bodies filling with light. The universe thinks, there are the stars. There and there and there. 

Labyrinth 2

 

 

The boy in the labyrinth feels the ball of twine unspool from his hand. The soft speed of its spillage as he walks. He measures it; his intimacy with its heft. The knowledge it erodes as spring water through quartz. Down the passageways, a game of cat's cradle tugs itself into a bright red web. In the darkest dark, the red twine twists about the corridors. It breathes the way a heavy sleeper breathes. Soon the boy in the dark has no string in his hand. To return to his demarcations is to enter a thicket, to bind oneself to the ligatures of one's own making. The darkest dark takes a deep breath as the boy's hand feels for that which sleeps beside.***


***

I'm experimenting with a way to end my "Labyrinth" sequence. I haven't decided whether I want to merely combine all the work into a single poem, or whether to have them sectioned off. They seem to work as single pieces . . .

***

If you highlight these, you'll see the originals, intact.

***

Oh, hi by the way. Sorry It's been a few months. Life got in the way. You know . . .

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