“I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry,” wrote Sylvia Plath. The poems featured below reach us on this visceral level. One poem’s speaker plants flowers to prove he still exists, unlike so many other black men who are gone too soon; another trains himself to dream of his father; and another assures his love that they will meet again, “where some unnamable star awaits / to hoist us both in its palm / and hold us close in a gaze.” These Top Five Poems of the Week offer passion, grief, discovery, and all poetry’s intimate gifts of connection.
We thought fingers in dirt meant it was our dirt.
Did the blood rush to my face or to my fingertips?
When I saw her, I was witness and weapon both.
A psychologist told me we can train our dreams.
We will rupture the calendar and demolish the clocks.