Find the pieces of love
that give you strength.
Ferret out nuggets of joy
that power your actions.
Power up on fragments of sunlight
as they enter your soul on song.
The fight ahead
is thick and long
on sprouting, devil barbed
sparks of evil.
You are watching the storm roll in, close in on us,
and I am watching it come, too, in the reflection
in your hazel eyes. The ending scene to a movie,
I lean into your shoulder as my cherry-red hair
whirlpools around us. To the ever darkening sky
we tilt our faces like wide white moonflowers
opening up so slightly at the brink of dusk.
Fireflies seep from the ground around us,
and the blue jays who once blitzed the air
are so hauntingly absent. Everything moves
in the tide of wind, everything is touched here.
As leaves turn and spiral around our silhouettes,
we are caving in like old lovers, we will not make it.
I do not yet cry. I am waiting for the moment.
I will stand in the rain then, so you will not see it.
My husband’s been after me
for years (he doesn’t ask for much)
to get rid of the New Yorker. Weekly
it arrives, and I study the cover, run
my fingers over the cool glossy paper, flip
open to the Table of Contents, slide
down to the red-letter heading: Poems. Whose
names are listed, which two are the chosen
ones for this issue. I’m less surprised
than I used to be, having grown
accustomed to the A-gamers. There are such
poets. Someday, I may be one—if I could
fully divest from such mundane chores
like eating and sleeping and sex. For
now, I’ll spit out the occasional good
piece. I’m not saying this will ever be
considered. I keep putting it off—
the decision. About the magazine
subscription. Of course.
How does my heart
speak for the chemistry
that makes up my mind
Is every feeling of rejuvenation
love or simple joy
When do I throw out
the terms and condition
so we can feel the same
beats per minute
under the rain.
Why do the best stories
find love in storms
if we use the sun
as a symbol for great happiness
You hold me in your arms
and my heart has contionous beats
but my mind feels so still
Is this really what love
is suppossed to be?
Days of planting seeds gave
her the courage to continue in peace.
Drenched in heat or storm, she
managed to plant.
She always had flower gardens,
wherever she lived, the air that
filled her lungs, the dirt that filled
her nails.
The neighborhood girls called her
“the flower lady” and she loved that
they noticed the rows of zinnia and
spikes of gladiolus.
Creeping phlox cascaded down the
edge of the rock garden, her years
measured in floral bounty. They shared
memories.
She wore a shawl of lantana,
draped across her shoulders
now bent with age. Hummingbirds
flocked to her magic in the dance.
A wreath of echinacea
circled her head. Rings of violets
wrapped her fingers. Lavender
scented her body.
Garden phlox was a gift from a
distant lover, spreading serendipitously,
a feast, glistening in the August sun,
waiting for visitors.
Today I awaken before the birds
I beat the sun to the horizon
I crave these precious stolen moments
Where the world is mine alone
As all else slumbers
Save for the crepuscular creatures
Who cling and creep along the shadows
Summoned back to life by dawn
The light begins to ooze into the sky
Painting glorious blues, yellows, and oranges
On today’s fresh canvas
I smile once the singing starts
Warm coffee in hand I toast them
My avian greeting party
As we all vow to dive deeply into
A new day
we remember vividly
our tears wetting our doorways
that would slam shut instantly
sobs sailing down the hallway
could they tell at revival
that you only loved briefly
and pray for our survival
ash coats hands of the greedy
cw: dead animal
i have to talk about the dead sparrow but nobody wants to talk about the dead sparrow bc
to them it what it says on the tin, but to me
it’s a poem about
my fear, seated in the amygdala and abdominal organs
the stillness and pliancy to which a prod responds
the spinal agony of its Pythagorean angle, half trapped and half freed
now
it’s belly up on the curb, ant-folded and two-winged
and definitely
a bird
not the bulbous slug i took its head for, draping with its beak like
the southern point on a compass
rose
how did you get in the mailbox
anyways?
are there more of you buried in these bricks?
birds, birds, birds bodies, bird bones, birds piling up in a dark cavity
i didn’t even know existed?
and did i fail you, little-hearted thing? when i heard your cries
earlier
and took them
for a cricket?
