Category: Poetry

I gather elderberries by the river. Last year, these purple-black fruits rotted on my counter – I was in the ER, clenched with pain and cold under ten blankets and by the time they opened me there was a liter of blood to take, one slender branch and th … Continue Reading

Cool like the Virginia waterfalls his eyes undressed her and yet, his stiff smile demanded such reverence from her. Rust-gold like the hawkweeds of summer, his eyelashes, cast fringed shadows on his cheeks whenever he closed his eyes… freckles floati … Continue Reading

(from the Summer of Three Foxes) It is easier to boil water than it is to freeze it. It is easier to write a poem, pay a bill, open a can of tuna, or peel a beet, than it is to read a book that has sat too long on the kitchen table. A sandwich is a poo … Continue Reading

(after Pablo Neruda) and it happens that I am tired of beauty shops. The smell of hair dye makes me break into hives, a sort of hysteria. Hysteria is an old-fashioned, Freudian word. Freud is out-of-fashion, and that is a relief. I want fashion to be o … Continue Reading

Now I will never go to the tern colonies where I learned to spot nests in the sand and collect chicks for you to band swiftly, noting their sex and type: Common or Arctic or Least. You blew on their bellies with a straw to show there are no feathers th … Continue Reading

The children ignore you submissively waiting in place in the sunny kitchen. They skip past you, an ornament in a bowl. The father, on the other hand, from the instant he lays eyes on you, leers hungrily at your buxom figure and blushing skin. He would … Continue Reading