In the field of dead Johnson grass,
The red-winged blackbird landed.
It swayed the desert-colored stalks
With its weight, then held its place.
Like a swollen tick plucked from a dog
Then dropped, it did not move.
From this distance, I could not see
What suspended it there, what attraction.
The park forty years later is still green half the year,
and empty, though its emptiness courses
from indifference rather than vandalism, created
by children no longer running barefoot down a hill.
I had to pass the bully’s house on the way
to the park. The house was patched together
with plywood and the weeds hid snipers
with slingshots and rocks big as my kneecaps. Continue reading
My sister took her grandson Mason for a recent visit to the poetry museum. In the Craig’s List poetry exhibit, he ignored the instructions (I love when people do that–I’m serious) and wrote a poem about a vampire:
My sister has opened a shop where she is selling furniture and other stuff that she has repurposed, reinvented, renewed, re . . . okay, I’ll stop with that lovely prefix. She has a shed full of stuff she is working on, and one thing she showed me was an old time card container with the slots that each card goes in that she wanted me to make some homemade cards for.
I came in from the porch
Where my sisters and I drank wine.
Everyone had eaten, two plates
For most of us. Three for you.
So once upon a time
When we bricked rectangles of hay
into our houses, we suffered acne
and the dream of escape,
A stepfather who smothered your smile,
The deadness of hours never ours.
Open your heart.
Open your heart. Continue reading