These three poems were first published in Meat for Tea (Vol 17, Issue 4) and recently shared at my February 27th Poetry & Practice Presentation at the Easthampton Public Library.  Formatting is always better in print so you should buy a copy of Meat for Tea :).

A Walk through Smoke and Rain

On the bridge I pause to watch

the mallard couple cut Vs in the pond

below the haze. A heron flies silent

and so close my breath could touch its ancient breast.

 

The rabbit, though I’m nowhere near,

still she dashes low for cover.

 

Chains twist and clank in the school bus undercarriage.

 

Sweet locust flowers nearly all fallen;

pink white ghosts flitting over exposed roots.

I pluck remaining petals to place between my teeth

and chew. Wonder if below the sweet I am eating ash.

 

The cemetery’s trailer truck passes by with cement liners

so our dead bodies will never touch the soil.

 

Two pileated woodpeckers land in the dead tower of a tree,

dig deep into the shattered wood to break their latest fast.

 

The sky was spitting

when I left my house. As I return

rain comes with me, but when I raise my palm

to what’s beyond the clouds

I still can feel the heat.

 

This is the morning

these fields silvered in fog
So the mountain is gone, birds rise
early sun takes dark from wings’ tips

Follow the road as far it goes
to the edge of the flood
the bridge gone, too,
and beyond further fields are under water

These are the fields we would have eaten
sweet corn and peppers, potatoes and carrots
all through the summer and into the winter

Now all we can do is drink
the brown waters silted,
pluck sticks and twisted bottles from the brew
find—surprise—green life still in it
broken fronds of ferns and three acorns—
this season’s first tree seeds.

 

Hunger

The mountain is haze

And there’s a hole in each maple leaf

 

I don’t know if this is as the morning should be

or if the fires …

 

Or if the insects moved by a new wave of heat

set off to eat and eat and eat

 

We hate insects, their dangled legs and broken wings

blister our lips at supper. We cover them with wine

 

Maybe someday we’ll find ourselves inside

the same hot need, spilling cracks & doorway jams

 

Desperate to break out of all the grief

of this heat