In the Cemetery

near my father’s house
my mother moves 
finally in her sleep

five crows face east
one turns on spidered feet
bows a black head

to sand and seed
the fragile hand 
of a red leaf falling

  -previously published in Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets’ Calendar: 2014




Man in Gorilla Suit on the Corner with Balloons


Was it the smell of fur that drew you 
to it, years of it embracing 
the swelter of this day, you leaning 
on the telephone pole, paw raised
to greet the cars that drove by?
It’s 93 degrees, but you look 
almost perky with your biker shorts 
and purple vest. All work is worthy, 
I told a friend who delivered pizzas.  
And yet, I wonder about the dignity
in zipping into those sweaty spaces. 
How many have gone 
before you, settled skin against skin 
against poly-fur-something skin
and there you are breathing inside 
the same plastic mask while you ape  
your mitted hands, resigned to salute 
and wave, to pound your chest 
with some kind of joy? 





What I Couldn't Say


were my “esses,” in third grade
my teacher sent me 
to the speech therapist 
to learn to control my lisp.

After weeks of staring into mirrors
tongue held behind the fence of my teeth
I finally got it.  My hiss controlled, no 
more schussshhing, no 

darting tongue, I learned 
to stare at birds, admire their sweet song,
the wires susurrating softly under them,
the squabbling squirrels.





Sweet Ida


Too bad her name is so short –
two syllables, a third of Idaho, 
half of Idalina, a poor man’s 
Bette Davis with bedroom eyes 
and lips like silk cushions; her hair
is a dark flood of waves.  Sweet Ida 
Lupino, London born under a table 
while zeppelins struck, 
she was known as more 
than a face, a body 
of work enduring 
but who knows her now?   
Poor Ida, no more than a red pin 
on an old map of film idols.  
She’s been reduced to three 
small squares, a brief mention 
on 12 across, a clue for 10 down, 
a puzzle fill-in where nothing else 
will fit, a quick blip needed 
to finish what was started.