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Two Poems from “What the Hollow Held”
People said "Sorry for your loss," suggesting / gone forever, suggesting never come back, / never get found, as in empty, as in without, / but it was something more / like transformation
Growing Mythology, or, To Turn a Frog into Something That Isn’t a Frog
Tuck islands in the lyric. Offer a watery spelling of light. / The disruption of stars in the blue-black oil // unearths a verb from its worm palace. Sing.
Two Poems from “What the Hollow Held”
People said "Sorry for your loss," suggesting / gone forever, suggesting never come back, / never get found, as in empty, as in without, / but it was something more / like transformation
The Painter
You sat with brushes in hand and the light flowing above and below, / the prayer like paper, the light illumined our sacred trees.
Tiny Metal Objects
Objects are often tied to memories – they strengthen each other in the elaborate pathways of the mind. Songs, smells, tastes: the list is endless. Nostalgia and reminiscence can become fused instantly; sometimes, the bond breaks like a weak weld, and other times becomes permanent.
In Her Own Time
At least ten years ago now, I was sitting in Cafe Roma, one of the nicest restaurants in Cleveland, TN, waiting for one of my literature colleagues. We were hosting a visiting writer for the university where we taught, and the others of us were already there. I was the only one sitting facing the door, and I was paying close attention to when Susan would arrive.
Aimelie
When Rod mentioned Aimelie, which seldom occurred, people who didn't know her, which was most of the people he knew, thought he was saying “Emily”. Fair enough—that's what he'd thought when he first heard her name spoken. By then, he was already smitten. Not that he ever let on or said anything to her—or to anyone else—about his feelings for her. He was old enough to be her grandfather, for crissakes, and never for a moment considered alienating her and her family by declaring his feelings.
STENDEC
Even sitting here, head bowed, the sound of the drops is tapping out the structure of a new anesthetic. But I ignore it by humming to myself to mask the patter of droplets. Sometimes I would like to leave, not this room tonight, but the hospital. But that would not be a good idea. They would not let me leave anyway and that is to the best.
Belle of the Ball
It’s late morning in a small boutique on Fifth Avenue in Midtown. The store has a half dozen or so women in it at the moment, not counting the three saleswomen, one of whom happens to be the famous actress who owns the place and occasionally makes an appearance to chat with the clientele and introduce them to her new shoe designs. The two friends whisper to each other while splitting their gazes between the elegant merchandise and the other customers being helped.
The Scandal at Pebble Elementary
Pacific reaches for the valley. / In side glances see-throughs / in fuchsia dawns and hell fire dusks / with a latent thrust of impudence: / outer space beckons to the sea trench.
Map of Matter
Pacific reaches for the valley. / In side glances see-throughs / in fuchsia dawns and hell fire dusks / with a latent thrust of impudence: / outer space beckons to the sea trench.
A Basalt Princess
Pacific reaches for the valley. / In side glances see-throughs / in fuchsia dawns and hell fire dusks / with a latent thrust of impudence: / outer space beckons to the sea trench.
Where Nobody Is
Last weekend, a friend asked to go for a walk— / somewhere without people, she said / She doesn’t want to see people: / hiking trails are packed, / so I suggest our town’s cemetery.
The Gasconade
We make Southern Missouri by dusk, / arrive at your river, park, & walk / along your shy, thin corpse. / I come to you by firefly tonight / to do what children do with mothers