Posts for June 14, 2026 (page 10)

You sense them in the air, wet nostrils flaring
Nosing through the back door crack
Steadfast and still, ears alert, eyes sharpened 
To survey your kingdom and all things wild

Motion stops, everything stands still
Squirrels twitch with anticipation
Bunnies cease their munching
Bird song quiets as they all wait to see

Like a shot, you aim your mark
Today, the squirrels on the feeder
Mocking you again with their
Portly bodies and bottle brush tails

To the fence and the trees they retreat
Escaping your speed and obsession
Hearts pounding from the chase
To wait you out and return to their heist

You saunter away with sexy indifference
Smug in your feeder-saving conquest
You climb the stairs and take your throne
Biding time for the next careless creature to move

Soaking in the lake
Under the sun
Needed respite
Day of fun
Awesome landscape
Yields peaceful heart

The bumblebee
Flies by with glee

Its bounty brings
A sneeze to me

Drowsy in the black cradle
of a nighttime car, I watch yellow 

patches of street light slide
by, wash over me in brief

bright pulses until, abruptly,
they stop. My sister rouses  

beside me and yawns, Daddy, 
why aren’t we moving?   

From behind the wheel, our father
watches the taillights of his mother’s  

car, wondering the same thing.
We’ve been caravanning

back from some weekend
adventure, but now we stop  

and remain stopped. Finally
my grandmother steps out

onto the shoulder. Dad follows,
and they speak muffled words

behind the car door. A bump,
they say, a dog, and 

Is it wearing a collar?
My mother silently exits  

the vehicle, returns a moment later.
I want to see the dog, I say. I love dogs.  

No, she gently scolds. Not this one.
Daddy and Grandma are trying  

to get a number, knock
on a front door, make a phone call.   

Is it still alive?
Yes. Barely.  

I say, We should take it to the vet,
but her answer is, No,  

honey. It won’t live that long,
which makes me sad, imagining 

a cute dog lying there, still
soft and warm, wearing the collar 

someone who loved it
buckled around its neck,  

but drawing helpless last
breaths because we won’t even try

to take it to the vet.
We wait and wait until

the owners show up. No one
ever lets me see the dog,  

and Grandma, who loves
all God’s creatures, even mice  

and spiders, cries and cries,
and I sit still

holding the pink stuffed
animal she gave me that day,

wishing I could just see that dog,
but everything is dark.

with the mockingbird? Is there a warmth tucked among 
its feather–dress that knows dawn’s cold 
will flee like the patio’s puddles?  

Is God in the song it shouts to the geese, married 
in the sky, and to every bird that homes in on 
the neighbor’s pond this morning?  

And to what purpose the high-wire hop—a one-bird 
showstopper to help this gray world to a smile? 
Lower than the angels we certainly are,  

but around us on our green trampoline a host of spotters— 
both feathered and earth-bound—circles, loyal to their  
service they keep wise watch and sow blessing. 

The Basin of the Hollow

The Appalachians are the only foundations
that refuse to shatter when I lean.

I pressed back into the hills
and they held—
not with gentleness,
but with stone’s slow,
unyielding patience.

When every room feels too small
for what I carry,
the mountains widen around me
and “too much” shrinks to scale—
a hollow the hills know how to cradle.

The basin never spilled me out.

These are the only monoliths
large enough
to meet me eye to eye.

The stove eats wood.
The flatbreads smell of sugar.
Pots of stew
foretell the future.
Grandma dries clothes inside,
and sheets of yufka,
trays, and the heads of freshly bathed children.
Outside, the wind keeps knocking its forehead
against our house.

A a butterfly, a toad, and a soul sleep in the earth.

Uncle tells his slow stories,
gathered from people’s homes and woods.
Whatever happens, it’s all good,
and all people are good.

The women keep knitting long memories
and vivid dreams of the dead.
Jars of honey lined up by the fire,
a scratch at the back of my throat.

My mother left me
sweets, and words, and dresses…
I’m a big girl now
but these women still watch over me
as if I were a kitten.
They sprinkle sugar on the woodstove
when I have a stuffy nose,
and I breathe in the black smoke as a cure.

They whisper their dark little charms.

I listen to grandma, to the wind and the stove.
I don’t want these words to run out.
This nose of mine whistling along with the kettle,
and this scratch at the back of my throat.

Covington, Kentucky on the Ohio River across from Cincinnati, Ohio, a child of a saxophone, clarinet, harmonica-playing father who started a band at 17, and a mother who at only 16 he hired as his pianist. From a house full of jazz, blues, classical, swing, big band, country, singing Mitch Miller Christmas album songs from sheets of words. I am from Catholic grade school, exchanging holy cards for Valentine’s Day, daily mass, wearing a chapel veil. May crowning, praying rosaries & novenas—ingrained in guilt, unworthiness, beseeching forgiveness.

I am of German descent. From goetta, braunschweiger, German potato salad, grilled baloney, potato pancakes, skewered city chicken, grilled cheese sandwiches during Lent, Barq’s cream soda & vanilla ice cream floats. From Reese’s produce truck, Finke’s meat market truck, the ice cream truck’s soft serve, Eskimo pies, & drumsticks. From candy cigarettes, jawbreakers, nonpareils, wax lips, candy necklaces you wore all day around your neck before you eat it, & Nabisco wafers we pretended was Holy Communion.  

From old streetcar tracks, the woods of Lookout Heights, tree houses, vines to swing on, honeysuckle licks, blackberry & mulberry picking, collecting buckeyes, & shiny rocks. Outside games: Red Light/Green Light, Simon Says, Kick the Can, Ghost in the Graveyard, jump-roping, Cat-in-the-Cradling, ice-skating on frozen lakes, roller-skating on sidewalks, dragging wagons up hills, riding down at breakneck speed, electrified & terrified.  

I am from family walks after dinner, hanging our warsh on a clothesline in the backyard, fried chicken picnics for summer concerts at Devou Park bandshell, Coney Island rides: The Wildcat, Wild Mouse, & The Lost River. Weekend country drives, travel to state park campgrounds to tent & pop-up camp, singing in our old Ford station wagon, counting cars & states on license plates, naming shapes of clouds.  

From a mother who sewed us Halloween costumes, dresses for Christmas & Easter, who taught me to sew at 8. I’m from hand muffs & mohair sweaters. Noxzema cold cream for sunburns, Vicks chest rub for colds, stinging Mercurochrome for cuts. A paternal German grandfather who started a drycleaner business my dad & uncle continued. I am from a maternal grandma who prayed for pets & people as she walked her neighborhood, nursed cats, dogs, & neighbors back to health. Because of St. Vitus Dance (Sydenham chorea), she wasn’t supposed to live past her teens, was warned not to get pregnant because of a bleeding disorder, but birthed two daughters & lived to almost 88. Who told me Never let anyone see you cry, a belief I reject with all my heart.  

~ Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From” project

Covington, Kentucky on the Ohio River across from Cincinnati, Ohio, a child of a saxophone, clarinet, harmonica-playing father who started a band at 17, and a mother who at only 16 he hired as his pianist. From a house full of jazz, blues, classical, swing, big band, country, singing Mitch Miller Christmas album songs from sheets of words. I am from Catholic grade school, exchanging holy cards for Valentine’s Day, daily mass, wearing a chapel veil. May crowning, praying rosaries & novenas—ingrained in guilt, unworthiness, beseeching forgiveness.

I am of German descent. From goetta, braunschweiger, German potato salad, grilled baloney, potato pancakes, skewered city chicken, grilled cheese sandwiches during Lent, Barq’s cream soda & vanilla ice cream floats. From Reese’s produce truck, Finke’s meat market truck, the ice cream truck’s soft serve, Eskimo pies, & drumsticks. From candy cigarettes, jawbreakers, nonpareils, wax lips, candy necklaces you wore all day around your neck before you eat it, & Nabisco wafers we pretended was Holy Communion.  

From old streetcar tracks, the woods of Lookout Heights, tree houses, vines to swing on, honeysuckle licks, blackberry & mulberry picking, collecting buckeyes, & shiny rocks. Outside games: Red Light/Green Light, Simon Says, Kick the Can, Ghost in the Graveyard, jump-roping, Cat-in-the-Cradling, ice-skating on frozen lakes, roller-skating on sidewalks, dragging wagons up hills, riding down at breakneck speed, electrified & terrified.  

I am from family walks after dinner, hanging our warsh on a clothesline in the backyard, fried chicken picnics for summer concerts at Devou Park bandshell, Coney Island rides: The Wildcat, Wild Mouse, & The Lost River. Weekend country drives, travel to state park campgrounds to tent & pop-up camp, singing in our old Ford station wagon, counting cars & states on license plates, naming shapes of clouds.  

From a mother who sewed us Halloween costumes, dresses for Christmas & Easter, who taught me to sew at 8. I’m from hand muffs & mohair sweaters. Noxzema cold cream for sunburns, Vicks chest rub for colds, stinging Mercurochrome for cuts. A paternal German grandfather who started a drycleaner business my dad & uncle continued. I am from a maternal grandma who prayed for pets & people as she walked her neighborhood, nursed cats, dogs, & neighbors back to health. Because of St. Vitus Dance (Sydenham chorea), she wasn’t supposed to live past her teens, was warned not to get pregnant because of a bleeding disorder, but birthed two daughters & lived to almost 88. Who told me Never let anyone see you cry, a belief I reject with all my heart.  

~ Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From” project