Poems

Each day he packs. Takes pictures off the walls, adds the dish that held his morning toast. The crumbs too. One slipper goes into his bag. One stays under the bed.

a darkening sky
feeds on a bloodied woman
dawn beckons freedom

A new mother doesn’t need words to pray. Her body is a pulsing prayer in motion. If there’s a part or fiber of her body not engaged in nurturing I don’t know of it.

in a split second | life shifts | you fall | not sure if | you heard it correctly | sprawled on the ground | truth has you pinned | writing about death | placing it on paper

Blame the promiscuous breeze of Chernobyl, diesel fumes, warp-walled genes. Blame payback. Blame the consorts of unhappiness, Freud shouting Get a grip.

I’m a blondish plucked chicken underneath my burgundy scarf
though I thought I was bold and tough when I cut my hair short weeks ago ready with wigs and peacock-bright coverings

If Lady Liberty could open her copper and iron lips and formulate words, would she emit French, a French accent? Would she say your fatigué, your pauvre, your huddled masses?

in the two hour sunset after the eight hour evening I become a goop puddle in your passenger seat. you play that song and I don’t know which words are coming next.

Some human cells adapt to toxic stress by physically becoming other cells. Smoke enough, and tall columns become flat lung lines. Turn 16, and girl lining becomes home-in-waiting. The word for this is metaplasia. It is supposed to be temporary.