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Two Poems

The Doorway Although that extra door had long ago vanished into a wall when carpenters remodeled the kitchen for more counter space, I could still see through it between the balusters when I climbed the stairs. See my mother hold

Three Poems

What if Cat Stevens was a dog person? Someone offered me an olive branch when all I really wanted was an olive for my dry martini. I stared out of my balcony with said drink in hand and saw a

City That Cultivated Our Voice

(excerpt from “Stones”)   Back then, everything was only starting, and nights were so short that dreams didn’t have time to find a way to us. Instead, they hung in the air like sun dust and disturbed our sleep.  


after BPK It wasn’t a goat’s head swaying in the tree. It was a ferret we sacrificed in the microwave. And we weren’t us yet just the preteen versions of who we would become— though wasn’t that us already?—the girls

Two Poems

The Departure   Farewell my pond and all my many doves Upon their tower and who kindly donned Their silky plumage and its swollen loves Farewell pond.   Farewell my home and all its gables blue So many friends in

At Once People at the End of T…

come from common spaces to move around the fountains and the flowers of Hyde Park. They appear early, soundless, as if shod in slippers of sleepwalkers.  They embark then pause, each breath the birth of a small god. Thoughts enter


Words are loyal. Whatever they name they take the side of. As the word courage will afterward grip just as well the frightened girl soldier who stands on one side of a street, the frightened boy soldier who stands on

Babel of Signs

Skirting the coast desperate for fresh food cutter nosing in for soundings miles offshore they anchor overnight wake in thick fog-bank that abruptly lifts: surrounded: 300 canoes: a tremendous din of wild yells (the first Europeans they had ever seen)

I’m Nothing

close to a Zen scholar, haven’t learned to manage my blood pressure as billionaires plunder the planet selling-off our remaining resources and everything heads to hell in a hand basket. No matter if I poke my walking stick in the

Two Poems

Blind The way, as I wake, some shimmery dream rushes toward the sun’s obliterating flame, the day, too—this lit second, and this, the crux of it, a wild weeping at its heart—feels gone already as I enter it.  Blind ancient


Everything and everybody are always doing something. At no time on earth are all human beings still. Or never does the high-quality packaging around your prescription Stop deteriorating to unusual twists, it’s just slow. I suppose the rose bush is


None of my friends called their grandmother Nana. Only I did. And mine wanted to be called Nana probably for the same reason years before she insisted that her only child, my mother, even as a baby, call her Lee.

Two Poems

Morning, Redux   Another morning in the  obscure, light  spackling the  clouds  rolling  in, running before  some  storm. The  sky flattened like an unstamped envelope. The  local predators must have been  sleeping  in. It was early November, songbirds off on

Three Poems

from   Devil Mutant Child a tale of an evolution of emotional intimacy            for Florida Missouri Brasier 2. Exactly the hair I wanted, I am not complaining. Were I to choose what sprouts from my head, this hair is exactly

Between the Bed and the Window

First, the light, which is always perfect if it’s arriving from the sky, at this moment indirectly from the east, reflected off the banked clouds in the window and making the dim bedroom visible including my feet, having followed the