Month: April 2016

A cottonwood fluff drifts up through the window,

whirls in the droning, lands in a puff

upon her breast.

 

It clings to her sweater

in need of good, solid rain.

She spreads music on the stand,

stretches arms, leans forward

to put fingers to the keys,

 

and presses pudenda,

ever so gently,

to mahogany.

from the alley Mrs. Alvarez

watches the garden soak up rain,

looks over rotting leaves, ground well turned

 

she whispers the names of garden plants—

oregano, habanero, potato, tomato—

 

she shakes the umbrella,

crosses the street to church,

tells the priest she remembers

when fertility was life’s curse

In the garden, mists in quiet layers

fold under cottonwood and elm.

 

Sunlight sifts into the smoke,

cool breezes rise from the leaves.

 

Baseball gloves, a ball, an arc—

a mobile of the human heart.

The green at the window makes me

think of tender lettuce, new sprouted beans,

furrows in musty earth;

 

and I remember

as weeds grow unabated in the garden,

a waistline expands in increased benefits.

behind the prairie house

night falls in secrets

 

the swing cracks against the tree,

a sheet snaps in the rain,

heavy and alone

At sunset, cardinals and cowbirds,

black-capped chickadees and red-winged black birds

fall quiet in tangles of ditch willow.

 

The shadow of Lincoln’s tomb

pierces the city, knifes furrows.

 

rain falls through the linden,

quivers on an eyelash,

spreads across your cheek

Rain pours straight down, warm

in the meadow, the cabin’s tin roof rings,

boys run for a lone pin oak.

 

They sneer at lightning,

turn face and naked chest

to the deluge.

 

Frogs roll out of the forest,

a sleepy plague. The boys pluck them

from the meadow—

grass sticks up between their toes

 

as if they had grown there.

 

Travel always leads

to this darkened window

streamed with rain.