Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Tuesday, rain, distant thunder;
and this restlessness
beneath my ribs.
I cannot pinpoint its source
though I’ve felt it before.
Ghost of a deep-
seated longing, skeleton
of a self looking upon itself
as though through other selves—
like rain pouring down in a room,
but always just a few steps
ahead of the moving body.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
In fifth grade, the year after our school
became co-ed, when I stood up for recess
I left a smear of blood on my seat.
The teacher took me to the faculty office,
found me a pad and helped me wipe the dark
spot from my navy blue skirt.
Then when we returned to class she made me
the morning’s science lesson, never
realizing how deeply I flushed
from shame. At home, surrendering my soiled
uniform and undergarments to my mother,
I was lectured on chastity and virtue, not quite
understanding yet what they had to do
with this body so newly perforated
from inside, from an unseen wound.
She went and bought a copy of a book
with a bride all gloved and veiled on the cover
amid a retinue of bridesmaids—
On Becoming a Woman— and thrust it
into my hands, not knowing how else
to talk about it. The rest
I was supposed to figure out myself, along with
how to manage the mess, the cramping, the stale-
sour smell that floated as if just beneath
the surface of the skin. The only out-
ward rules: too dangerous to start holding hands
or kissing any boys. No eating musky fruit. No bathing.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Off in the woods, the glint of old glass.
Light another spear glancing off what’s shorn.
What they mean when they say fractal:
all the selves, never discarded; only spun,
differently colored, blue with memory or amber
from what filled and filled and sometimes emptied.
Hand, mouth, head. Isn’t that what fragments are for?
From what filled and filled and sometimes emptied
differently colored, blue with memory or amber:
all the selves, never discarded; only spun.
What they mean when they say fractal:
light another spear glancing off what’s shorn;
off in the woods, the glint of old glass.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Who decided to name them after
champagne, these glowy yellow
golden hearts
syrupy with promise?
They are like moons ripening
over a dark river in summer,
when heat and ennui make
mirages of every longing.
Even after you’ve eaten
down to the pith, you want
to tip the boat farther
with your sticky fingers;
you want to step into that water,
clumsy, not knowing what to do,
carrying your big hunger.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Dark wings like a damp umbrella—
the smell of rain before rain itself.
Light a sheet beaten with spoons,
glancing mercurial off water.
High on cliff ledges, rare birds’ nests.
Mummies in caves, prim with drawn knees.
What you touched in me: medallion with raised edges.
Mummies in caves, prim with dawn knees.
High on cliff ledges, rare birds’ nests.
Glancing mercurial off water,
light a sheet beaten with spoons.
The smell of rain before rain itself.
Dark wings like a damp umbrella.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.