Category Archives: poem

all us Golightly’s

all us Golightly’s
with our nameless slobs of cats
we flit from this
party to the next

i see how the makeup
sinks lovingly now into the laugh lines
around my blue eyes
witnessing the apartment
filling with guests
masks and all
in the space behind the mirror

one arm sits
linked with the man of accent and money
watching close by
an unknown writer

when he leaves –
don’t abandon me when i begin to push you away
help me find
a name for the
cat.

domestic scene (she was almost a writer)

the scene:
quiet house, laundry spinning
husband out, children sleeping,

up typing in a tingling
of curious fingers seeking–
dreams i could be this i could be that

kerchang  — kerchunk.

he has left change in his pockets.
they herald my attention
rise my legs to the chore
and the burning heat on the dime
doesn’t register on these
oven-calloused hands.

untitled (quilts always warm)

you don’t have to remind me of that
orange and brown
soft knit afghan quilt that
matched nothing
in our house
but in theirs —

the olive green
and the hanging plates
and that day
laying on the hardwood waiting

no games, no pick up sticks
only a new jewelry box
and my reliable Alley cat
in a house creaking with grief

dismissed
gathering stones
in the drain pipe
that felt like a river bank
little sister in hand
knowing more than they knew –
quilts always warm.

how do you tell someone not to worry about sunrises?

the moon hung precarious
on the ledge of the night,
forlorn and feeling worthless
as if the tiniest breath of air
could send it tumbling into midnight

i’m looking up so scared
every frozen winter breath ascending
in staccato
trepidation – don’t worry
don’t jump

don’t give up.

from creative writing class circa 2001 slightly modified (in fact so is “on the pool deck”):

on the pool deck

i tell you my story
hands flying excited
and we share a laugh
dripping with water, below
laced by lane ropes and
striped like a tiger is
now- silent, calm
we don’t notice the
chills or chlorine,
like restless touches

and i think about
       moving through water
graceful but fast
ripples from fingertips
like casting a spell
so that air becomes charged
with unspoken words –
tense muscles
ready to burst off the block.

visitor hours (just another body in the hall)

Rosie the bird gives
a shrill whistled dare
as I creak up the steps.
The old sit littered
in every hallway, every landing,
they sit and stare, even
my grandfather’s eyes
betray him.

I’ve had enough of the bird
who calls my bluff,

his bloodshot blue eyes
try only so hard —
realize they’re tired and
admit: “I’m just
another body in the hall.”