Poetry Blog

When I grow weary of the sharp-tongued world / of men grown callous, bloated with self / of truth unspooling into knotted lies / of indifference, slack and drifting / or cruelty, bright-edged as a blade / I slip away to hear the liturgy of the marsh . . .

I am from cotton hand-me-downs, hemmed to fit, / from Carnation powdered milk that stretched / what the milkman brought in glass bottles with wire handles, / and Nabisco Shredded Wheat in one big, sinewy biscuit / that filled our bowls and slowly softened to mush as we ate. . . .

A scenic wall calendar / from three decades ago, / pulled from the bottom of a drawer / shows December’s squares / especially crammed with tiny scrawls / about kids’ play rehearsals . . .

When I go to the grocery store / Snag a cart and push down the aisles / A crowd trails behind me / The whole way . . .

Welcome, pilgrim. / Lay down your burdens with your luggage. / Neglect your phone as you have neglected quiet. . . .

Let me slay my illusion of isolation / It is a lie I have believed / Let me smash it on the hard tile floor / And neglect to sweep up the shards . . .

This life can seem so random / as if you came spurting out of your mother's body / into a swirling pool where you floated around . . .

Curious about how this relates to my upcoming novel? This article explains more, but save it for after you've enjoyed the book.