Browse Sections

Self-Portrait With Butterflies

Lonely and a little bored, / I used to donate blood every eight weeks / at the Red Cross across the street / from my studio apartment. / Eyes skyward, arm shot straight, I’d sigh / as a butterfly needle settled on my skin, / its plastic wings drawn to a vein / in my forearm

World Prayer Day

While people all over the world / chanted and prayed for a miracle, / we stood in the woods with binoculars / trained on a pair of bluebirds / flitting from branch to branch, / tiny chests puffed out / in the chill morning air.

After We Buried The Dog In The Dark

He came back. I saw him / in the grass, the white of him / glowing in the floodlight, / the wind turning it off / and on again. / I saw his face at the door, / waiting to be let in, / his nose leaving smears / across the glass.

The Debate

I’m listening to my father and his brother, / both in their eighties, debate their childhood / from adjoining La-Z-Boy recliners. / “We had no toys,” my father insists. / “What are you talking about, no toys?” / My uncle practically leaps from his chair

The Smaller House

While building the larger house, he lived a very simple life / in the smaller house he’d built before, the house without / water or power, the 12 x 20 foot house with three windows

Trap

TRAP   noun. \’trap\   1. a device or enclosure designed to catch and retain or to kill animals, typically by allowing entry but not exit or by catching hold of a part of the body; see also “CAGE”; see also “SHACKLE” / As in: If an animal is caught in a trap, it will probably die there.

Selected Poems

Love Poem

Brooklyn April 2020 | even now the old men sit / at their corner on the stoop / the three of them on the stairs / one on top of the other / recycled masks hanging / from their faces to appease / whoever loved them / and begged them not to go out / into the street

Braiding His Hair

Here we are each morning: / my husband on our old kitchen chair, its upholstery / while I comb out his long / wheat-colored hair.

In The Days Wherein He Looked On Me

Thursday, sad wet morning, / reading the Gospels on my way to work. / I’d been doing that all year: waiting for the bus / on the front stoop’s top step, / making my way to the same back seat