Village Women
they carry water in pails on their heads dirty laundry in baskets to the spring sacks of corn and potatoes under arms they give birth after working all day in fields they paint their doors and windows a sea blue they sit at the loom at night so that they may have something to pass on to their children they wake before their husbands and they go to bed after their husbands they knead bread in the early morning they feed the chickens, pigs, goats they water the vegetable gardens they cook large meals on open flames they carry these large feasts to the fields they pick up, put down, wash up,...
Read MoreRefashioned, Using Suede Juxtapose
Two days later I come to and find wolfs in my flannel sheets and a Czar hiding in my bedroom slippers. I put on a robe to cover-up my balalaikas and stagger to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Here’s the point where you may want to add wind chimes or just a couple of bacchanal sirens taped to the kitchen counter. See, I never make it to the coffee pot. I trip over my oversize dog and land in a drapery crew cut, breaking my commemorate precaution shimmy feather and flashbulb to heaven where I’m cordially greeted by statuesque hype mugging milk and honey on a leash. But this muffler...
Read MoreFlowers
To be alive is power – Emily Dickinson We don’t expect to be here tomorrow so we are ruthless with our small lives we pump fragrance into the morning jewel the afternoon bend our petals like thumbs at night after the scrape of drought cloud is our deliverance water comes down in silver wires and ants twitch air between our roots the rough lick of the hose leaves a cleft for diffidence the crest of a worm’s tender head we eat bones blood and meat and our own bodies and...
Read MoreYour Old & Forever Wedding Patchwork
(a triolet) Here, dears, a runner for your unity flame pieced from our hope chests, Indian baskets, hearts, for yours. The way we save for rites in our name — here, dear, a runner for your unity flame. Joined ribbon, lace, crocheted, embroidered and sewn, from your grandmother’s and great aunts’ homestead arts — here, dears, a runner for your unity flame, pieced from our hope chests. Indian baskets....
Read MoreClint and Buck
I. I met Clint Eastwood in the hills today, that familiar grin, slouch, that laconic stance. Faithful to the etiquette of the trail, he rolled out a howdy, I repeated him, reversed passage to see if the star had truly passed me by. Was the man long-limbed enough, spare enough? Does Clint put on khaki shorts like those, that bland kind of tee, does he live nearby, like to hike, to see bees swarm & butterflies on the lam? The thought bore with me, echoed in the silence of my solo trek to the height of the ridge, the silence of my break, the slog back to an empty fridge,...
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