Tuesday, February 14, 2012

It Was a Giraffe

Actually, it was a recipe holder.

Ok, it was a stick painted yellow
with brown spots and a glued-on
clothes-pin stuck into a styrofoam
cup filled with plaster of Paris.

It was a Mother’s Day present.

It came from kindergarten
and it was in my hands when I got mad.
(Mom, it’s my turn to sit up front!)

It was unwrapped by my stomping feet.

It is the eyes shut tight
brown-and-yellow-and-powdery-white taint
of every Mother’s Day since.



Boston Literary Magazine - spring 2012

Nursing on a Park Bench

He squawks for his next drink
like a hunched-over, half-drunk
curmudgeon of a wobbly wino
with a lifetime of sorrows to drown.

She attends like a bawdy barmaid -
busty, casual about modesty –
and serves with an affectionate
familiarity that turns faces red.

I wag my head, smile at passersby,
reach into the bag, unfold the little blue
rocket-ship swaddle, pause, watch
their stare, refold the blanket.