Dorothy Barresi



Average rating: 3.98 · 136 ratings · 15 reviews · 10 distinct works
Rouge Pulp

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 37 ratings — published 2002 — 2 editions
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American Fanatics

3.92 avg rating — 26 ratings — published 2010 — 3 editions
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All of the Above

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3.88 avg rating — 16 ratings — published 1991 — 4 editions
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The Post-Rapture Diner

3.68 avg rating — 19 ratings — published 1995 — 3 editions
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What We Did While We Made M...

4.67 avg rating — 9 ratings — published 2018 — 3 editions
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Mother, My Porous China, Gone

4.25 avg rating — 4 ratings — published 1998
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The Judas Clock

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 1986
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American Poetry Now: Pitt P...

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3.83 avg rating — 18 ratings — published 2007 — 4 editions
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Real Things: An Anthology o...

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4.50 avg rating — 4 ratings — published 1999 — 2 editions
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Rattle #20: Poetry for the ...

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4.50 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2003
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More books by Dorothy Barresi…

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“Your enemies call it comeuppance
and relish the details
of a drug too fine, how long
you must have dangled there beside yourself.
In the middle distance of your
twenty-ninth year, night split open
like a fighter's bruised palm,
a purple ripeness.

Friends shook their heads.
With you it was always
the next attractive trouble,
as if an arranged marriage had been made
in a country of wing walkers, lion tamers,
choirboys leaping from bellpulls
into the high numb glitter, and you,
born with the breath of wild on your tongue
brash as gin.

True, it was charming for a while.
Your devil's balance, your debts.
Then no one was laughing.
Hypodermic needles and cash registers
emptied themselves in your presence.
Cars went head-on.
Sympathy, old motor, ran out
or we grew old, our tongues
wearing little grooves in our mouths
clucking disappointment.

Michael, what pulled you up
by upstart roots
and set you packing,
left the rest of us here, body-heavy
on the edge of our pews.
Over the reverend's lament
we could still hear laughter, your mustache
the angled black wings
of a perfect crow. Later
we taught ourselves the proper method for mourning
haphazard life: salt, tequila, lemon.
Drinking and drifting
in your honor we barely felt a thing.”
Dorothy Barresi, All of the Above

“A cross is a poor shade tree in earthquake weather.”
Dorothy Barresi, Rouge Pulp

“The story the body lives in is crazy
there is no end to it but change.”
Dorothy Barresi



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