Big Shoes

Her shoes are now too big;
she bought them not too long ago.
They fit. She wore them.
These days, though, her feet slip
with every step.


The Collector

She is 65, locked up until $35,000
or answers cross the desk.
The authorities, her friends say,
had been alerted. The authorities,
said the authorities, had been "working on it."
Breeder by breeder, she filled her shelves.

Of the living (one hundred and sixty cats,
one hundred and six dogs, thirty-one birds)
most were licensed, legally hers.
The dogs lived as families in automobiles
in the yard. The birds nested in silky tangles
of fur and strips of newspaper.

When the authorities
did come, they found her asleep,
head on her paws, curled up
on two large storage bins
of cat carcasses.
The authorities counted
at least 200 dead.

"These were not strays. She purchased them from pet stores and breeders. She collected them like some people collect fine china."

The story here.


One Day Later

She lay in bed as the house swayed, arthritic, in the wind.
In the empty space where his breath
should have been, she thought she heard
the foundation sighing.

Her Father, the Tree

She heard her dry branch cradle cracking.
The earth rose up to meet her.
Pine needles fell like confetti. They sharpened her hair. They stung her cheeks.
She held the scent in her nose.
Her wounds were bright jewels in sticky settings of sap.
A cloud crossed the moon. She tried to stand.
Her feet would not.
She made a new bed against the trunk.
The owls watched her sleep.

Thynges Wrytten Downe, or, A Fresh Start

It was time to start over, on something less tinged with Internet leprosy than LiveJournal, something I wouldn't be embarrassed to print on business cards. So here we are.

The title of the blog comes from Terry Pratchett's character William de Worde, who has set up shop in the overwhelmingly illiterate fictitious city of Ankh Morpork. The sign outside his shop advertises "Thynges Wrytten Downe," which usually means legal contracts, letters home to the Old Country, society announcements, and the police blotter. Here it's mostly poetry.

As ever, comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. I'm never going to get any better if you don't say something.

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