el fin

Titan silhouettes cast on the wall
Dust mites move with alacrity
at footfalls trembling the ground
The quaking earth takes shallow breaths
Men come, gods depart


St. Therese sent me flowers.
An altar of red roses – I pleaded for white
the first Novena. The second, I begged for red
or white or pink or yellow or black but not
a wedding cake adorned with orange roses.
It was too cruel an action, a brutal honesty.
Why rend my dreams for all to watch?
I picked each petal to a child’s rhyme
Like Tarot cards, the fortune unchanging
with my rising anguish.

The politics of flowers

Another late night/ last-minute submission. Couldn’t come up with quite the right closing lines, so I chose ones that made me laugh.

Spring has born a litter of dandelions
half trampled underfoot, yellow carnage
sullying concrete paths.
No daisies dally with the weeds.
They are kept – over there
in a manicured panorama,
taking up their portion of a small lot.
They are not so loud, not as wild and unkempt
as their cousins.
The daisies nod to the wind, polite as usual.
Gallant, even, when the dog comes
to take his morning piss.

the emo-girl glam

Distress stretched over years,
the lip caught but beginning to peel.
When it snaps, will it sling me
forward, backward? Too fast for contrails
a whizzing sound & a flash.

The eleventh hour

Off to sleep when the husband asks, “Hey, did you write your poem today?” I offer to you, dear reader, my thoughts in haiku form on “How to Get Away with Murder”.

A day home sick, TV

Do they get away with it?

Shondaland surprises

multivariable methods

A professor of mine once said that
Old, white men are prone to
transforming statistics into personal memorials.
Oh, but what these legends become.

I wonder if Wald haunts these halls,
slamming doors and stomping up and down
those narrow steps, a proper hissy fit,
when my students ask,
“Why can’t we just use a t-test?”

& I shall name him Victor

He told me, “If we move to St. Andrews
then we can get a dog.” Here, he maintains
he is like a dog, close enough to a dog –
he is shaggy, he is smelly, he brings mud
into the house, shakes his tail when I walk
through the door. Like a dog, but not a dog
I must remind him. One day, that dumb animal
loyalty will fade. He promises he will love me
unconditionally, but we both know how
unnaturally that comes.

National Gallery of Art

I can recall the breathless moment:
Heart knowing to stop for love before feet,
a quick about-face grinding sparks
on marble flooring. Lace curtains
fluttering on a salty breeze.
His name was Wyeth.

I was 17; he was immortal.
I could not love him less.
7 years passed before he found me
on a desert honeymoon.
My new husband humored the meeting.
All together, we watched an approaching storm
amble over Arizona peaks, the taste of salt
hot on our tongues, etched landscapes
burning bright in electric afterglow.


The cross stands, stained.

The tomb is empty.

Where is my Lord today?

In every raindrop, every sunbeam,

each gust of wind that carries song and Word.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

Create your website at WordPress.com
Get started