Poems

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.

This poem was once a bird | An eagle in fact | Whose span of wing | And accurate sight | Was the stuff that legend makes.

Common as pennies, they mob the feeder, empty it in a day— nothing left for finches, wrens, chickadees— birds from the genus Passeridae, meaning flutterer.

This morning, my body unfurls from sleep, soft sheets teasing bare breasts, groin thrumming. Outside my window, a goldfinch whistles and warbles. I laugh aloud. There are miracles in the garden…

Congratulations to the winners of the 2019 Dreamers Haiku Contest! We had over 600 haiku submitted to this contest. The number and quality of the entries…