March 2024
Bio Note: Happy to report the birth of my first grandchild, Liam. He's an overwhelming and new kind of joy.
Still Life as Poem No. 2
My father, who rises before dawn
and lets my mother dream alone,
sits beneath the small light
over the kitchen table, his grasping
hands illumined on a mug, half
his unforgiven face also, as he stares
into the black hole of his coffee.
Originally published in Panoply
You’d Still Be Here
If I were a magician instead of a parlor trick
If I were a eucalyptus grove and not a leaf blower
If I were a silver needle
If I were a guardrail instead of a distant train
If I were a long pause on the phone and not an explanation
If I were a wheelbarrow
If I were a dresser drawer instead of a door
If I were a moon-soaked moment and not a hard fact
If I were a down pillow
If I were a garden instead of a bee sting
If I were a freshwater stream and not the interstate
If I were a bank holiday
If I were a bossa nova instead of a shrug
If I were a rain-slicker and not a damp wooly blanket
If I were a tiny bell
If I were a seabird instead of an old apology
If I were a somnambulant child and not a homeless window
If I were a porch light
Originally published in Illya’s Honey
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