Retirement
15 September 2008
Vol. 8, No. 3
poetry
Always said we'd travel, but he's busy
as a dust storm and done already landed
where he's like to stay, the ground
floor a that new fancy store in Hayford
that smells all through like perfume, and sounds
like high heels clackin in circles.
Seeds
12 September 2008
Vol. 8, No. 3
poetry
We spit the sucked off pulp off one side
of the porch, then spit the pumpkin seeds
into wooden bowls while Dad shook spices
in a Ball jar, something secret, something
different than the secret thing for popcorn
he called "Magic," seasons humming into
open drawers and cookie sheets. We wanted
only to carve but did this work for him.