Blog, My Poems

Timetable

  When I was young, I gazed at a tree and knew if I didn’t start climbing, I’d never get another chance. My smaller body was in a red and black dress, white tights that snagged on the branches. By the time the adults took notice, my feet were above their heads, the reaching fingers.… Read More Timetable

Share
Reading

Reading Joan Aleshire

  TWELVE FAIRY GODMOTHERS   all came with gifts to the birth: one with laughter, one with strength, one with luck, one with love, one with grace, one with hope, one with imagination, one with insight, one with health, one with keen senses, one with will, and one— angry with the others or with my… Read More Reading Joan Aleshire

Share
Blog, My Poems

Gunshots and Fireworks Are Sort Of the Same in the End.

                                                    —after Matthew Dickman   As I get a little bit older, I reach the beginning of July and begin to pray for a little quiet: Bruce Springsteen and Fleetwood Mac turned down low and all the sausages done with their hissing and pulled off the grill. One evening, I am alone, and when I… Read More Gunshots and Fireworks Are Sort Of the Same in the End.

Share
Blog, My Poems

Then Again—

  The low, chuffing calls of deer in the bog are like a man grinding his teeth, steadily into the face of a megaphone. The call of birds. A conversation, the garble. The suction and pop of a leg pulling up from the bog’s thick mouth. Upon close examination, spiders look like scorpions when climbing… Read More Then Again—

Share
Blog, My Poems

Motherhood

  One afternoon I mistook a young swan, dipping his head, for a large turtle rolling over and over—water, sun, water, sun—and the sadness returned. My stomach, seeming at a distance, filled. I wonder now if this is how a mother feels when she loses a child, a miscarriage, or when she first abandons the… Read More Motherhood

Share
Blog, My Poems

Sarajevo, Chicago

  At the restaurant, the ceiling tiles were white and sagging, weak-in-the-knees, Casablanca lilies. This was a place that should have taken him back to his childhood. A place for burial, a cremation. They arrived with a variety of meats, d’oeuvres, all the way from Bosnia. I only knew a matter of words: please, thank… Read More Sarajevo, Chicago

Share
Blog, My Poems

Hand-Painted Mailbox

                                                    —A prose poem   One winter, a group of teens went racing down a country road with a baseball bat and left a series of metal carcasses in the snow. One was dark blue with a large crescent moon covering half, little kid hand-shaped stars covering the rest. Its house was dead and empty.… Read More Hand-Painted Mailbox

Share
Reading

Reading Mary Ruefle

  WASPS’ NEST   The empty, almost weightless, onionated brain. Planet-on-a-branch. The first lantern to glow in space when Wang Bo thought, I’ll look a little closer I’ll lift this flame inside. His footsteps. His panting. His words of announcement: how beautiful, how useful. Not knowing what to say. Not knowing which would please his… Read More Reading Mary Ruefle

Share