Mary B. Moore: Gloria, Arbored
The foliage simmers or shivers,
airs itself out, and the round
leaf-scales, which join and branch,
make each stem a flat little tree:
a tree of trees.
August 31, 2025 · 15 Comments
Mary B. Moore: Amanda and the News, c. 2016
I’m old as stones and not as solid.
Gloria fritters a while
and fiddles my left eardrum,
a tickle not a hum.
May 14, 2025 · 7 Comments
Mary B. Moore: Ab Ovum
could say anything’s inside me, Gloria, Dad, Mom,
the old Royal typewriter, Xs, Ys, a blue ’58 Hudson . . .
but I Wiki-checked the car and learn they quit making them
in ’57 so then I wonder if I mean the Hudson River
April 25, 2025 · 14 Comments
Mary B. Moore: The Birds of Cutting
I’m tired today and blue to boot.
Nothing buoys me, yesses my no’s.
Even the cardinal on the fence,
a dusky girl, isn’t all red
like cardinal boys
February 17, 2025 · 15 Comments
