Because I Have Four Tattoos and Want More
Everyone has a tattoo—
or two, or three,
skin and bank the limit.
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Katherine’s Coffeehouse
This Is My Postcard to Me and You
This is my postcard to me and you.
You are good. Not just
good enough. Not okay,
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We are not immortal, and neither is this poem
After a while,I am tired of trees.Not the woody-armed entity,bigmouthed and knotty nosed,that watches over our home.Not the longstanding gatheringof trunk and twig, thick skinned,evocatively named: Sycamore.Black walnut. River birch.Red maple. Not the resolutecedar, meditative, still, impermeable, apotheosis having long beencompleted. They are actualized,the Holy of Holies, fabled and tangibly ancient. Unlike we,awaiting our turn,
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My homeland speaks in tongues
My homeland speaks
in tongues. Gone too far
to roll back vein and gristle.
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Day Seven, October 1st
Day seven,
warm rains still come,
speckled deer restless
and asking to nurse,
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Clippings (a draft)
We hadn’t known she could scream.
Glass shattering wail
through slats of a muzzle,
two techs holding her down,
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Twenty Something Years Later, And I’m Still Thinking About It
I stumble into it, on it,
living room jumbled,
Lego under my foot—
dark because someone
actually turned off the lights.
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Goldfish
Once, I killed a fish.
More than once, if you count
the 22 goldfish I accidentally
overfed before the ick took over,