Month: November 2012

In Dead Grass

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…

Eating the World, Part 2

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‚Äôs house on the way to the…

Boy in Poetry Museum

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: Vampire bit someone and they went…

Clock in with Poetry

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…

Your Gesture

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.

The Adult’s Song

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.