February 2025
Bio Note: I live & write poetry in Cincinnati, OH. This isn’t the first time I’ve attended your cocktail party, but I haven’t been around much this past year as I've been navigating difficult losses. I’m the one in the corner who likes to keep a low profile. I'm dressed primarily in vintage clothes, as I can't seem to wear anything new.
Sister
By Six, the Flood had done —
No Tumult there had been
Of Dressing, or Departure —
And yet the Band - was gone —
- Emily Dickinson, “The Birds begun at Four o’clock —” (783)
White hair, a spare fuzz, & blue eyes aflame,
you name the birdsong’s rise & fall, the rippling swell—
the thrill of a thirty-year birder—you explain
a chestnut-sided warbler’s call. The whistling tell,
you name the birdsong’s rise & fall, the rippling swell,
an overnight visitor from some other place.
A chestnut-sided warbler’s call, his whistling tell—
you stand by the screen, silver light on your face.
I’m the overnight sister from some other place,
a nurse to tend your surgical wound, swing legs out of bed.
Your ear near the screen, silver light on your face—
the rock in our field, our steady grace. Instead,
sister, I care for your wounds, hoist legs out of bed.
Five nights, with me on a cot and you so near.
The steady rock, our field of grace—you said,
There’s my friend, as the robin spilled pre-dawn cheer.
Five nights on the cot and you so near—
like when we pitched a tent in Saratoga Springs.
The robin wakes at 4 a.m., spilling cheerup cheerup cheer.
Stay here with us until you must take wing.
Remember pitching a tent to hear Joni sing?
The thrill of a thirty-year birder, your refrain.
Stay with us—here—until you must take wing.
White hair, now spare, but blue eyes that flame.
Conversation with Dr. Zhivago’s Lara in the Backseat of an Uber
On the Way Home from My Therapy Appointment (Where My
Therapist Told Me an Attachment Disorder Affects My Marriage)
Lara leans in and whispers,
“True love’s not carriages and cozy cottages.
Snow comes with cold. At first, the silver land-
scape’s magical. Then, you must wrap
yourself in furs. Romance starts
like a revolution but, in the end, it’s war.
The train leaves smoke trails and you see
your breath comes in clouds, alone.”
Dear Lara, let me tell you, I’ve lived
in your Russia. Waiting for the good doctor
to appear. A nest with one man under
the comforter. No comfort if no twin soul is there.
I want to say, fiction’s not your friend.
Listen: your perfect match dies
of a heart attack. The lesson is to stop
looking for lovers out every streetcar window.
But here, I ask Ousmane, my Uber driver,
how he got to Ohio from Senegal.
He shows me a photo of his wife of 30 years.
“She’s Khady,” he sings. “She makes me
crazy, but that’s the thing. She wants,” he shrugs,
“we’re here.” He points at his phone emphatically.
I lean in and hear myself say, “You stayed
that many years. She’s family.” At ride’s end,
I open the door, look up at my home.
Originally published in The Atticus Review, December 2022.
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It's important. -JL