My right hand pinky nail
grows like my grandma’s nails.
Unlike the others,
short and wide,
it grows long and rounded.
It reminds me of her hands
making breakfast,
playing rummy,
burning faces into cigarette wrappers
when I was a child.
Sometimes at night,
when I’m half asleep,
her voice comes to me
and the world seems less lonely.
Worms and roots rustle
grains of soil.
Pea plants pirouette
to flowing water.
Shelf-fungi drip
guttation.
Shakuhachi catches
wind whispers.
Mourning dove wings
whistle warning.
Woman breathes
in the wrong space.
Trouble not buried in earth
shuttles upward.
Little dog barks.
The title of this poem is a line from Medbh McGuckian’s poem “Death of a Ceiling.”
You had not seen her
where
when
no human was there to assist her
she closed
against light
like a machine
I step into the darkened
forest dotted with golden flecks of
sunlight dancing across the path,
contrasting shadows lurking within.
It’s like entering a fairy tale
when you don’t yet know how it ends,
and I enjoy the adrenaline as I
weave through the woods,
breathing deeply, drenched in this heat,
watching the ebb and flow of light
glisten on my skin as I move.
for my dog Maggie, aka The Moose
It’s a day to be lazy as a dog,
Independent as that hog
sliding on the ice
I’m hotter than an otter,
Failing as a daughter
but still being nice.
You may be drunk as a skunk
Skinning up the trunk
of that tree once or twice
But me, I’m lucky as a duck
Running all amuck
shouting cluck cluck cluck
getting all unstuck
looking for a . . .
nah . . . I’m just looking for a truck.
I love the way snow defines
contours of hidden beauties
usually escaping our eye
in the daily breeze-by
to somewhere else
The louvers on the shutters,
now wearing snowy edges,
dash out a visual staccato
like a jazz progression
as my eyes bump over
each perfect shape
White islands hang onto tilted
chairs that lean against
the fence crazed with intrigue,
flawed with weathered
scars mapped with snow
My eyes move an erratic flight
like a cat hunting an insect
that flew into the house
I zig-zag through the textured
mesh of shapes and
connecting lines, seeing
all the snow laden abstractions,
half there, half covered
in powdery disguise
Surely jazz rose up in response
to the nature of all things revealed
in fragmented concert like this
And artworks were constructed,
inscribed and painted
in response to moments
from our temporal world
and shifting relationships
Thanks to art makers
who create legacies
of perceptions such as these,
to revisit again and again.
These thoughts reassure me
that not all will disappear in
the glare of the snow-melting sun
Dark days yet spreading
ill deeds not stilled
Kill shards of strife
weed out withered lies
with undaunted bold action
truth-powered heart
-Sue Neufarth Howard
I’m sure my grandmother baked
like other grandmas I knew,
but that’s not what I remember.
What stands out for me is a kind of love
so fierce it terrified me,
especially when I was the object of it.
You could murder someone,
she’d say with what was meant
to be a reassuring smile,
and I’d know it wouldn’t be your fault.
But what if it was?
I was a contrarian even at six,
my mind going over every possibility,
searching for a condition in her love.
What if I did it on purpose?
Then, you’d have your reasons.
Perhaps perpetual blamelessness
should have filled me with the ease
I knew she intended,
but I was a particularly guilty child,
finding transgressions in myself
where there were none,
and I didn’t like my grandmother,
she of the hairy chin
and the strange mechanical
smells from chemo.
She had dark moods
and a sharp tongue
that snaked in all directions.
My grandfather’s arms
were less complicated.
Today, now that both are long gone,
I wonder what part of her lurks in me,
silent,
curled up,
waiting for an opportunity
to strike.
it is while I watch you sleep,
the dummie going up and down in your mouth
while your fingers curl around a blanket,
that I am reminded of the gift that you are
you were unexpected
you were joy and hope wrapped in a bundle of cloth
who squinted in the sun
and sweat too much
and whose gurgle helped me to remember
to plant seeds in the garden
you will see grow
we wake the first day of a heatwave
that makes the world pause
make small talk about the numbers
everyone turns slower and sleepier
with the sun
i throw a bottle of vodka
in the freezer
to forget about
and remember later
you suggest we go swimming
i smile
wondering
if it’s just an excuse
to see me
squeeze into my swimsuit
(or that you like the way it barely covers the heart shaped hickey you left the night before)
i like the way your eyes dance over me
i like the way
we don’t need plans
for the first day of a heatwave.
that we can be as
hot and heavy
sleepy and slow
as we want to be.
