Poetry

The Wrecker Lot

After the latest town wreck, my mother would drive us past the wrecker lot to see the twisted shapes of metal; bumpers and back ends deranged, sharp edges glinting; passenger doors cut away to remove the dying, the already dead—the bodies, we heard, sometimes burned beyond recognition. Evening quiet would…

Being In Your Own Mind

When you’re with, say, your own kind, those toward whom you do not feel a need to prove yourself, to explain the context out of which you speak; being in your own mind’s ease is easier then. No fiddling to find the right word to convey belief in sacramental places…

Summertime Chi

Short for Chicago From a rooftop on Lincoln Ave. you can see the fountain fill with angel wings. Summer’s humid cape trails your bike through grid-pattern streets. Windblown, lake effect, rain-washed leaves. Jazz music means: Uptown, red line. Train window. I believe [Subscribe]

Rivalry

For our mother Oooh—that bad seaside vacation you spent Caught in the surf of my warring sisters (That they were engaged or married was no matter)— I saw you felt again how selfishly we fought [Subscribe]

Forsythia

1 Shallow spring & the great act fails The forsythia freezes A half-dozen buds on each of several stems Which for them means a weak few & then summer & likely leaves crimped to the red stems Which then will spread 2 Sunlight & eventually A white-blue bold jay will…