Some say we have doubles
in the other half of space
an other self or self-to-be…
like the jaunty yellow lily-bud
swishing its shawl
atop a splayed-heart pad
whose fringed edges
echo the ripples of the lake
where the lily’s blinking reflection
unmakes the bud
even as the flower is being born.
published in SRPR (Spoon River Poetry Review) Issue 42.1 (summer 2017).
......................................................
A BIAS TOWARD THE BENEFICIAL
Out on the porch a rotund bellied spider
catches bugs that nibble holes in my flowers.
Sun ignites spectral beadwork on
the glistening labyrinth of its slaughterhouse.
Its artistry ennobles its cunning plan.
But now a bee, that garden benefactor
hovering on extinction, gets entrapped,
and then I want to tear the web apart.
The bee hangs limp, past self-defense.
The spider’s engulfing limbs are swift and deft.
After the meal I cannot watch, the spider
recenters in its mandala, poised for prey.
But after a blistery rain, diaphanous trailways
of web disappear, replaced by empty space.
published in The Hopper, 2017 print issue
...............................................................................................................
SOLACE OF THE BRIGHT NIGHT
Full moon
stars shine in
crisp flickers.
Soft snow.
Tree shadows creep
across the moss
silently.
Inside
breath frosts the pane.
Hands entwine.
Tender,
you smile in sleep.
Who could dream
such splendor?
published in Avocet weekly #216, 2/1/2017
..........................................................
MOTHER RAIN
On those rare occasions when
some radical injustice
set me off my even keel,
my mother would comfort me.
She’d murmur something
about silver linings
that I’d silently translate
to mean that weighty clouds will
drop rain, which will recuperate
the scattered seeds.
published in First Literary Review-East, May 2017.
......................................................................
BETWEEN TWO DEATHS, AN ACCIDENT
Jolt –
Slid into on slick uphill turn.
Icy rain clots my hair
while I confer with the other driver.
No respite there:
man without insurance
mumbling through sardonic lips,
his car cratered from old collisions.
Trivial bumper compression
exaggerated affect spike
jagged amygdala plunge
fish hook twist expunging
tough memories stranded tight -
striated inflame, neural unravel…
Stopped cold.
Ahead, around the bend,
guarding the forked ramp to the G W bridge,
a cop scrutinizes traffic in the drizzle.
I could tell him my story of
misconstrued commute -
I could enumerate minutiae -
but I’d rather tell a mother
who’d pat my back in sync
to muffled sobs, displaced
from another saga
still too raw to mourn.
forthcoming in Oyster River Pages, inaugural
issue.