Let there always be
the bright juice of oranges,
sun on the kitchen tiles,
a small nonessential bird
silvery snail trails, blue iris,
the gopher, the palm tree, the goat
that found its way into the house,
pigeons stitched onto telephone wires,
the clear sound of the sea,
a time when everyone is away,
a plate of milk, a tin of strawberry jam.
But never again the empty house,
never again the open gate,
the algae drowning
the abandoned pool,
the man by the edge
beginning the dirge.
The still water. The small
First appeared in Antiphon
She has published two books, Fugitive Pigments and Embers on the Stairs. Her latest book, Flour, Water, Salt, will appear in mid-June 2016.
She loves the light on November afternoons, the smell of the ocean, a warm back to curl against in bed. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.