Poem: early July
In the days following,
I know the difference
between firecrackers
and gunshots.
Kansas City was crackles
and smoke for that week,
the sounds & smell I would
forever associate
with the quilt,
where he spread my legs
and kept his mouth there
till the sun came up
and for the last time.
I step out onto
the back deck twice,
then once more
when the rain lifts.
there is a new web
along side my
grandmother’s
windchime
post storm,
are you thinking
I may be getting the
feeling no one
gives a shit?
the web takes on
scallop of dragonfly
wings, it’s artist a tiny red bead
of satisfaction at the center.
Hello, Red.
the “I don’t care what you think”
about this silver glowing
around her holds my gaze
as I shift from hip to hip,
my cigarette smoke trails
through and for a moment
it is the portal. I realize
I have every opportunity
to blot out a name.
A name and a word.
“You know a word?” he’d say
(it was always Red.)
no one appreciates a good
bloody leftover
steak anymore,
cold and salty, enriching
the blood or slowing the
pulse but
at least this storm hasn’t
asked for any real sacrifice.
at least that.
at least the waning
moon has no
want to get down
on her knees.
or will she? will she
take it
all away
from us, Ruby?
I can only hope
this moment finds
us both
half the women
we come from:
Mine a power-giver,
yours dead before
her time.
You with her narrow eyes,
Mine too large
and too dilated.
















