Since the blues ought to be tall birds
wading and wailing
when the sun dies—
let the blues fill its lungs now
I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you,
I was ashamed of you. I despised you
As the place of my nativity.
What’s between them is a mystery.
The way the leaves that flag in the wind
know to be leaves, or the tree knows to grow them.
I hear my grandmother’s voice, a divination,
Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew.
It’s summer and the gods are playing tug of war with the wind and the sun. Some days are dead-weighted with humid air that clings to our our faces like … Continue reading
Back then she and her mother waited for the phone to ring, for money to plump itself up and walk through their door. Moments passed with yarn and crochet hooks.
shadow seeks shadow,
then both leaf
and leaf-shadow are lost
Here is a rock and two eyes
Here is a moon, there is a goose
And still there are more things I could not see