Today: Three Tiny Poems

BAR TALK

You remind me
of a father figure—not

my real father
who I leave absent

from my poems. Maybe for him, there are
too few words, or maybe

I prefer him like a ghost:
imprinted on walls. More words

I can leave scattered
on his grave.

 
WINTER BIRTHDAY

To the sister who has never
forgiven me, I often think of you

on a swing, as the young girl you were
before I was born. Every year

your birthday passes, and I place flowers
on a rock where I imagine you might one day

spread your ashes. To the young girls
we both used to be, these magnolias

in the snow: What a dark, inflamed heart you wear.

 
COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS

A heart full of sadness and blood
is really just any other heart. So common,

you might find one
at your local supermarket.

Aisle sixteen
next to the empty canisters.

On your way, pickup in Aisle two.
Outside, a broken

shopping cart gate
and a pile of runaway carts

now stacked against the nearest
Toyota. Outside, an old woman dropping

a brown paper bag
with something glass

inside.

Outside, the birds humming
with oncoming fall.
 

Share

Leave a Comment