Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Tuesday Poem: an earlier version appeared in Poems of Awakening, edited by Betsy Small in 2010

from Small Benedictions

Bless the torn
part of each day,
the ruptures in us
that caused it
to tear where it did.

Bless the green
heart of each rupture,
the small green
kernel of hope
saved for replanting.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Tuesday Poem: an earlier version published in BlueFifth Review in 2007


First Sonnet

When the family crowded into the Summer Street kitchen
I was all hers for a while: belting out God Bless America,
cheeks aglow, loud as Kate Smith on the Ed Sullivan show,
or the special birthday song we learned from Big John and Sparky
on the little Bakelite radio. Tucked tight within her arms I basked
in her smile, the cloud of her powder scent and smoky breath,
what I’d later know to be bliss, afloat on the feel of her lips
on my cheek, her drawn out kiss, as the aunts and uncles laughed
and clapped for us both. Most of the time it was more like
I was a mouse, eclipsed by the whirr and squeak of the clothesline,
the whish whish whish of the scrub brush in her fist, a pest,
a maker of dirt underfoot, scuttling around the house, furtive
and filthy as soot: watching her from the corners, struggle against
the enormity of her unhappiness, and the awful swelling of the mess.