The girl
her hair smooth brown taffeta
sits in the corner
of the walk-in closet
where clothes of cotton, gingham, and denim
drip to the floor.
The dim bulb casts its sawdust light,
its cord dangling like a rosary,
darkness leaking under the door
where she gently attends to her doll.
The doll’s soft body with vinyl arms
covered by a pink-dotted Swiss
party dress trimmed in white lace,
her legs in stretchy white tights.
The girl removes the soft plastic shoes and light straw hat
lays her down
on the make-believe bed,
an upside-down shoebox,
smoothing the terrycloth towel quilt
letting it fall to the ground
as she begins a bedtime story
to the doll’s wide listening eyes.
GL, 2/15/2012. Prevail.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
A Chorus of Crows
The Year of the Black Crow
Twelve among Literally Hundreds of Crows
GL, 2/13/2012. Prevail.
Twelve among Literally Hundreds of Crows
GL, 2/13/2012. Prevail.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Only Women Walk Down the Stone Steps
The farmer’s wife,
her hand brushing to smooth her floral apron,
elastic nylon stockings folded over at the knees,
shoes black and chunky,
takes jars of beets and onions, carrots and sweet corn
that wait next to the red plaid cookbook
and carries them down narrow stone steps
just inside the screen door
to the canning cellar.
In the cemented basement room
shelves lined with paper have been brushed and wiped clean
from swatted, crushed black flies.
The hands that snapped string green beans, sliced apples, peeled potatoes,
and cut flank steak
fresh from a slaughtered cow,
arrange the canned jars in silent rows
on metal shelving that resembles wire-wheeled market carts.
Boxes of fabrics,
bolts of linen, cotton, silk tablecloths
cower in the corner protected by gossamer cobwebs.
Upstairs, simmering on the stove
bone and broth breathes in, breathes out
wafts in and down
covering the old farm house,
musty drawers, old sachets, and bacon grease.
GL, 1/26/2012. Prevail.
her hand brushing to smooth her floral apron,
elastic nylon stockings folded over at the knees,
shoes black and chunky,
takes jars of beets and onions, carrots and sweet corn
that wait next to the red plaid cookbook
and carries them down narrow stone steps
just inside the screen door
to the canning cellar.
In the cemented basement room
shelves lined with paper have been brushed and wiped clean
from swatted, crushed black flies.
The hands that snapped string green beans, sliced apples, peeled potatoes,
and cut flank steak
fresh from a slaughtered cow,
arrange the canned jars in silent rows
on metal shelving that resembles wire-wheeled market carts.
Boxes of fabrics,
bolts of linen, cotton, silk tablecloths
cower in the corner protected by gossamer cobwebs.
Upstairs, simmering on the stove
bone and broth breathes in, breathes out
wafts in and down
covering the old farm house,
musty drawers, old sachets, and bacon grease.
GL, 1/26/2012. Prevail.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
All Things Are Joyful Near Water
A mile from the Kentucky farmhouse,
the pond where we fished
bluegills thin as a child’s wrist
swim, seek safety
in algae’s cotton thread-like welcome mats.
Tackle boxes balance on the bank’s edge,
trees lining the pond like a wooden picture frame,
branches casting
tossing leaves in water
midst the din of dragonflies.
My own cast is weak, a knee buckling,
so the father guides my wrist
and my line goes into the deep blue field.
My own bluegill is added to the catch,
strung together, dipped in water,
flopping, stippling,
texturing the surface
like morning’s chicoried coffee
cooked in the black iron of a frying pan.
GL, 11/30/2011. Prevail.
the pond where we fished
bluegills thin as a child’s wrist
swim, seek safety
in algae’s cotton thread-like welcome mats.
Tackle boxes balance on the bank’s edge,
trees lining the pond like a wooden picture frame,
branches casting
tossing leaves in water
midst the din of dragonflies.
My own cast is weak, a knee buckling,
so the father guides my wrist
and my line goes into the deep blue field.
My own bluegill is added to the catch,
strung together, dipped in water,
flopping, stippling,
texturing the surface
like morning’s chicoried coffee
cooked in the black iron of a frying pan.
GL, 11/30/2011. Prevail.
Monday, January 9, 2012
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