The Pulitzer in poetry went to one who wrote this:The Bat
We didn't know what woke us—just something
moving, lighter than our breathing. The world
bound by an icy ligature, our house
was to the bat a hollow, warmer cavity
that now it could not leave. I screamed
for you to do something. So you killed it
with the broom; I heard you curse as you
swept the air. I wanted you to do it until
you did. I have never forgiven you.
and this:Surface Hunting
You always washed artifacts
at the kitchen sink, your back
to the room, to me, to the mud
you'd tracked in from whatever
neighbor's field had just been plowed.
Spearpoints, birdpoints, awls and leaf-
shaped blades surfaced from the turned earth
as though from beneath some thicker
water you tried to see into.
You never tired, you told me, of the tangible
past you could admire, turn over
and over in your hand—the first
to touch it since the dead one that had
worked the stone. You lined bookshelves
and end tables with them; obsidian,
quartz, flint, they measured the hours you'd spent
with your head down, searching for others,
and also the prized hours of my own
saved alongside those artifacts
that had been for so long lost.