Tour Jeté

She was stunned at the revolution
of every year. Each time a season turned
she squinted, surprised. Did anyone believe
autumn would come again? And, too,
disorientation—she was alive this time,
this year, reason be damned.

Equinox and warmer light left
her eyebrows floating, dark
in the lake of her forehead.
(The leaves are actually changing,
the April air does feel like that.)




an old poem, revised for 2009
photograph by Alison Scarpulla

Prelude to a Black Star

She covered her dresses with pockets,
she filled her pockets with stones;
She'd pause at the edge of the midnight streetlight
and peer into the dark, alone.
And reaching into her pocket,
she'd draw forth a handful of weight
And fling it into the blackness,
listening for the sounds it made.
Sometimes it glanced off a trash can lid,
making noises like you might expect
But mostly she stood, ears widened
and waited for it to connect.



photograph by flickr user fishyfish

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.