poetry

For Quickly’s Modification

I’m afraid I may have gone a little too far.

 

Spent Winds and Tender Ones

In her late age
my mother-in-law came to hate winter trees.

Should the terrible oaks be ashamed, standing naked?

Forget staged catharsis: Spend two hours among trees
in their threadbare, fretful need.

Time may call down on me
a touch of her ferocious awareness.

Why not prefer stainless quilts to runaway joy,
the small-boned cedar—evergreen—to inexpressible man?

I shall take my irreversible doubts and my suspended sleep,
and swap their modifiers.

poetry

Twiglet on a pi-day (3.14)

 
 
 
 

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Twiglet #15

 
 
 
 

Rushing Water

There’s a picture of me somewhere, in some
shoebox. I’m fifteen or sixteen, black and white,
cat glasses in a summer sleeveless dress waving
my fat arms for balance shin-deep in fast water.
(Another picture, of my brother, five or six,
in the same frigid creek: he’s all hunched over
with cold and trying not to be swept away.
Unfortunately looks like he’s peeing.)
We were in Gatlinburg. The dress was pale
yellow with a collar like a pilgrim’s white yoke,
huge in the wind. We, with our mama and hers,
stayed in a pine-walled cabin by another creek,
The nights were cold, and that was amazing. But then,
I was still to experience life in air conditioned rooms.

  
 

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