Tuesday Poem: previously appeared in The Syracuse Record in 2003

Ode to the Moon Snail

Unlikely predator!

In that gleaming whorled shell,

its spiraled white 

setting tide pools alight,

agleam. O dance.

O trance of hungry 

chalky nebula!

O languorous taster,

with full and flexible 
tongue extended 
in a sensual 

narrowing gyre.

O unsuspecting quahog

stuck in sea bed mire!

What salty tide is this 

that turns seduction fierce 

enough to mount and pierce 

such horny shell ?

How does such glistening 

undulant meat

harden into drill bit ?

Purity of clammy 
darkness, suddenly 
inhabited by two.

What's a clam to do?

Ravished by the moon itself.

O secret wooings!

Delicious liquefaction!

Tuesday Poem: Previously published by Writing Women in 1997

The Year of the Plum-Colored Bathing Suit

her breasts were blue-veined

porcelain and full of milk

for the baby.

She waited for him to notice

them spilling, a soft waterfall,

wished he would ask her

to put marmalade on them at tea-time.

All summer she offered him sweet rolls,

hoped he would cup her lightly

in long china fingers.

Instead he stayed out of the water, reading,

or changing the baby's diapers,

or teasing their oldest boy

unmercifully.

Tuesday Poem: Published in Kalliope in 1986

photo by Rick Ruggles
 (color adjusted)

  

Let's Invite Autumn

into bed with us,

our legs rustling the sheets,

like wind sighs through fallen leaves,

a hint of dryness in the murmuring

that passes between us,

our mouths cool,

insistent as morning,

on the edge of desperation.

Let's start school tonight,

open each other like brand new books,

tangle ourselves in curiosity,

take a recess from innocence.

I'll show you my September apples.

We can press cider together,

drink to the gathering darkness.

Dance with me -- a last fandango

as we go ablaze, as we come

down to sweet sleep,

bright sails along the golden,

rim of sunset, the giddy

contours of what’s

about to pass away.