“Dhuga is arguably one of the best poets of his generation in English today, and certainly the one whose formal achievement seems the most effortless.”
SUNCHOKES
are not artichokes at all but tubers.
At the neurologist’s you squeeze my hand
Too hard for my liking. We won’t say tumour
At all; they’ve called it a growth. The rubber band
Retreats, acrobats in baby blue disband,
Sighing. I’m beside myself with fleeting thoughts
Of fleeing, you’re beside me with your garrotte
Of choked-back tears, handcuffing my hand.
“‘Sunchokes’ and Other Poems”.
PN Review 219. Vol. 41.1. September/October 2014.