Poems of the Week: 2010–2011
The pumpkins are looking up my skirt, making orange a kind of festive.
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The letters combine into words that resurrect the beloved every time.
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Fumbling among the constellations, I believed my throat would burst.
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I hear my brother’s wife whisper, It’s her again. Let the machine get it.
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The coyotes are making a kill. Their voices rise through the darkness.
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It’s like listening to the snow falling before sticking out your tongue.
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Noelle, somewhere symphony number two listens to you breathing.
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