Poetry, Vol. 5.3, Sept. 2011
Coin never spent in other countries
resting in Vick’s blue glass bottles.
Dry under-linings in books. Tests all
scored. Winslow Homer and Proust’s
Neck forgotten. All the populists in
bed clutching a cross of silver.
Snow in the Santa Ana, unreported
massacre in Carolina, child’s
violet splattered teapot packed
with dirt. Sealed packets of curls.
Great Grandfather’s brass tenth Cavalry
pin, with its cracked enamel keystone.
Girls tied to their wrists and wistful.
White candle wax pooled
and dried in the shape of a wren.
Folded notes to God in a shoebox.
Feet almost as large as longing,
prayers to turn passion to at last
finally something useful should the
gift be withheld. Bridesmaids dresses
with large bows and soured arms.
Swimming back upstream, always,
to the just-planted birches and sleeping
in the corner where the wallpaper turned
gold then seamless in afternoon light,
head on the cotton pillow untested,
heart already wild and overgrown
as the old, old apple tree.