Please enjoy this rotating collection of selected poems.
Because It Crumbled
in an Unnamed Storm of ‘62
my mother and aunts still pace
like sentries along the breezeway, marking
off the night, while under pilings, we girls
hold fort in sleeping bags and damp dreams.
The men have taken their highballs to bed.
A rusty chain on the porch swing sings
its repetitions riddle. Dogs long gone
of bone and sinew bark and race the surf
for seagulls, steady as a church creed.
In a wooden shower
warm pee puddles at the feet
of small brown bodies eager for sleep.
Our barren aunt bakes us sand biscuits
light as morning, sneaks us sodas
for supper, lets us wrap her in miles of gauze
like a mummy. She and the mothers
are gone now, and the fathers
and every board and shingle, and
because in the mingle of shattered glass
the only reclamation was the icebox,
stocked with bluefish, fresh-caught
and still cool to touch, and because
I will never go back,
I’ll forever be twelve and tender.
No one will grow old there or bent with time.
Lap pools at low tide will hold whole worlds.
The women will shelter, their voices soft
as attic dust. And somewhere
in some ocean, for the men’s sake,
the blues will always be running.
from Wild Plums
March on Washington, 50th Anniversary
Technicolor this time on TV -- but look hard
among the chromatic thousands
for the ones who will forever
inescapably be black and white.
They too are marching today: men with dogs
and hoses, four little girls in a church,
that fiery bus-full of students riding
for something called freedom.
And Esther, who, on that day, would set
her ironing aside, perch on a footstool
to watch. My brother, barely eleven,
entering our small den from school,
saw her face wet and twisted. He was
scared, confused. No one
had warned him about this.
All will be better now, she said, and he,
knowing she was someone he could trust,
sat down beside her to wait.
from There Is a Field
What I Did When
the Do Not Touch Signs
at the Modern-Mid-Century
Furniture Exhibit Drove Me Mad
Threw my leg over the rail
stroked the Eames, sexy
as I rubbed my fingers on
plywood and leather,
then climbed onto the Murphy
bed, lured him in for
bloom on heirloom sheets,
published in Press 53, 2021; will appear in upcoming
manuscript, Never Live Under a Tulip Poplar