selected past writing at 42opus
I am telling someone else's story.
This is not my magnolia
tree, and these are not
my shelled pecans.
I eat them anyway.
12 January 2009 | poetry
She couldn't resist the beauty of wood grain in floorboards so she spent days resting there, pooled out and bled in like a spill.
Once again, we find
ourselves under the
anarchy of starlight…
She said in the dark church kitchen
that the moon was on her
and so she put her last clean sock up inside her,
that she slept last night
in an automobile, was sober
but wouldn't be much longer,
that the fires choked her
the smoke, she thought, was greasy
and intolerable like Phoenix itself.
8 November 2008 | poetry