love

Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie

The lights of the galaxies are strung out over a dipper of gin

certainly the start of a poem Joan Miró can sink his teeth in

cause you know Miró says poetry, painting are

How Can I Count the Ways?

When grandson scrapes his leg on a barbed wire fence,

love smells like blood and alcohol and two Sponge Bob

bandages used to gently cover the cut and calm his fears.

 

When my sisters and I return from our mother's funeral,

loves sounds like the twenty-four cannonballs you make

into the neighbor's backyard pool and the squeal of

our children's laughter.

 

Love feels like crossing a marathon finish line

for the first time. Sore, exhausted, exquistely happy,

and seeing in your face the reality of a piggy-back ride

What do we want? Justice. When do I want it? After You.

a 1970's demonstration students workers against the cutbacks take over admin

building sit crowded cramped cross-legged listen to speeches blocking a door when

Walking Home

In the twelfth year of my marriage something got lost. My husband Roger and I had a fight. It's futile to repeat what was said. Cruel, ugly words spilled out on both sides. My psyche felt like it had stayed out in the sun too long, defaced by blistered, oozing sores. Our bed, once an island oasis, was now as wide as the Gulf of Mexico, and each night I slept fitfully robed in grey flannel. We moved through our days in studied politeness. Emotionally abandoned and betrayed, for the first time I danced with the specter of divorce.

Regret is Looking in Your Mother's Mirror as the Summer Starts to Fade

Jack lifts his head from the crook of his arm. Across the counter, he spies a bartender’s face reflected in the mirror behind shelves of liquor.

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