She wakes each
morning to song,
willing to let the rain
nakedness, to take
a chance that lines
of caravans will arrive,
scrawls of boats
will be etched
in her sand.
She isn’t sure
she can bear
the days when birds
on her head,
onto her page.
From: She Speaks to the Birds at Night While They Sleep
Published in For Women Who Roar
TAKE THE BONES
Take the bones
fold them in half.
If it’s below zero
pack them in wool
above 80, in silk.
You must carry them
yourself. At times
a thousand pounds.
At others, they will lift
do the crow.
From: Talk of Snow
In the Fifth Street diner, windows
wide to the guttered slush and pale-bone
sky, the day shift passes like nickels
and dimes–buzzing coffee and sugar,
grilled cheese and slaw, cups of
and sides of, all up and down the formica
counter, out to the smooth-hide
booths, ring the register, pocket a bill
or two in the waisted apron. Click,
clicking across the linoleum:
slinging fries, choco malts and the one
o’clock pie. Wind up the smile,
the hustle, tend the regulars
and occasionals who lunch with chatter
spilling through lettuce and dills,
straw slurp and chomp. Four plate
juggle and sideways slide, order
up, take out and slow clunk
of the clock ’til the last tab’s out
and slam the shutters, clamp the lock,
mop up and count up the take–
jitter, all foot throb and brew
waft, out of the fry, the ogle, into pine
pitch air and car spew, to bide
and poke along, hugging the tatty
collar the round way home,
beneath a wedging honk of geese,
the scarred and bloated moon.
From: Life In Two Parts
Published in Inkwell Journal