Poetry

Riparian Life

By on May 19, 2019 in Featured, Poetry | Comments Off

The grass crackled and frozen looking like sand and salt in the Egyptian desert, the source of natron that preserved the eviscerated and brain-hollowed bodies of dead pharaohs, still draws down a gaggle of Canada geese who must remember the site and near river of life much shorter than the Nile but sustaining enough even in the tired and soiled days of February for those beaks that peck and webs that stride upon last year’s vegetation that will renew without a weighing of heart against feather by Anubis, the jackal-head, so the big birds don’t have to worry their mortal...

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If We Lived Together

By on Mar 31, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

If we lived together, you would nick your chin on a regular basis, confusing my razor with yours, because I am more enamored of smooth legs than I am of ineffectual, pink girly-girl razors. If we lived together, I would lie awake until you fell asleep, then slide quietly from under the covers to turn the thermostat up five degrees, because I grew up in an ungodly-cold house and I swore that someday, I would be toasty-warm and sleep in the nude.  If we lived together, you would bribe me with a foot rub to stop my chatter so that you could listen to the nightly news.  If we lived...

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Mama’s Boy

By on Mar 31, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

The day I found out my mother had cancer I knew it before they even spoke. There  was something — I still can’t name it — something to the silence after the ringing stopped. My father’s “Hey Bud” lacked the usual enthusiasm. For twenty minutes there was only medical jargon, recitation of statistics. And in the pauses in between I could feel her, as only a mother could, worrying only how I’d take the news. When we were done, she told me she loved me, I replied in kind, and that I knew it would be okay. It’s always been like...

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That Month My Mother Begged to Wait with Her in the Dark

By on Mar 31, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

under the blood red dogwood, berries crinkly as skin. My mother whose bed I’d curl into the whole year I was six, woke up dreaming of fire, doesn’t want to be alone. Between the car and the  house, shorter than the hallway to her blue room where Otter Creek Falls licked the window. She holds onto the doll, the Lindberg doll I smashed in a tantrum. My mother who’d take subways at night all thru Brooklyn is afraid in the drive way of Apple Tree. Don’t leave me she cries like a child begging for water she’ll never...

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Dusk at Preston Montford

By on Mar 17, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

  Shropshire, England, 1983 First, the silence. Then, the green of poplars in a row like a solemn waiting chorus, motionless. The wood-and-wire fences, brick wall: borders marking edges. A silent Severn, wet line seen through boughs. At first. Then, the leaves at the top of poplars, waving in a slight breeze. Fresh cow dung, dried dung, green grass, dry weeds. Purple and white flowers. A wildness uncontained by fences. Down the path, shadows of dusk lead on to the River. The Severn moves in a gentle way: an angler’s plunk, the call of a pigeon, ripples of far-off cars, ferns...

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Raw

By on Mar 17, 2019 in Poetry | 1 comment

It’s like someone took an eraser to my executive function. I forgot to make myself coffee this morning. Coffee! Can you imagine? The one thing in my life that turns my insides to juice, slipped my mind. And the librarian had to dismiss me from the desk after she checked out my books. “It’s ok. You’re all good. You can go now.” Because I was waiting for something else to happen. Just staring and waiting. Driving home the trees with their thin branches pierce me. The fat robins jumping—I feel the weight of them. I have to clean out the mouse cage before my daughter’s birthday...

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