This poem, like the one in my First Post, appeared in Phoebe: A Journal of Literary Arts (Vol. 24, No. 2). Phoebe has a new name these days, Phoebe: A Journal of Literature and Art, and it appears once annually in print and once online.
The Woman Who Gave Up Thinking
how a bracelet of words
could be clasped
to form a sentence.
How the gaps
between someone’s sentences
were to allow for the indentations
She saw the forms
of others’ ideas
like a child’s alphabet blocks
heaped one on the other.
they became tiny animals.
In the silences
there was enough else.
Here’s a poem that was published in Nightsun (Issue #14, Fall 1994).
The Parallel Universe of Grief
In Belize a fat whore whispered to me,
I think about what music does.
Here I place one foot down and then the next,
thinking, she won’t be there,
whatever direction I take.
The woman whose child was killed by dogs
carries a whistle at all times.
Screeee she warns a bus back
and screeee she calls to the drugstore man
who eases her away with lotions.
She pierces the flesh on her husband’s arms,
displays him like a butterfly in a glass case.
Waving to passersby she points:
Jesus on the wall, baby in a box. Screeee
she calls to the public
to come see her patriarch monarch.
I place my feet together, then imagine them gone.
Transparency is my strategy now,
against I know how you feel.
Invisible, I am the wind carrying salt to your world.