poem
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Whatever happened to the Mary Celeste?Who encircled the globe in the 1870s Abandoned off the Portuguese coast bereftOf her captain, crew all lost to the sea Her hatches asunder, her quarters a messNovember 25th the ship log’s final entry Was she the victim of betrayal and theft?Some look for answers in piracy Other blame nature
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Burning ring of fireHunka hunka of burning lovegreat balls of firein songs love is a flameme, I’m just a straw maneasy to knock down, no brains, flammable My girl, the prettiest thing in the only bar in townShe never gave me the time of daybut late one night Guns ’n’ Roses was playingthe air smelled
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Open skies beckon in something broaderFor this is the ballard of the Forth Worth ThreeA trio of girls who may have been lead to slaughterOne afternoon on a Christmas shopping spree Rumour is they were nabbed by a fiendFort Worth, heart broken, was shaken to its coreFor they were never ever again seenAfter the 23rd
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I’ve been everywhere Once I was litheStrong limbs that leapt and pirouettedLook at my dancer’s feet I wanted to go everywhere Detoured by reckless loveOnly got in trouble for my troublesLook I was beginning to show I was known everywhere Above the fold bold headlinesTo a footnote in a plywood trunkLook what’s become of me
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It started with a partridge in a pear tree. Not a real breathing bird of course but a ceramic one in blue and gold. Cindy found the package on the way to work after Clare had left for school. She drove the package kelly green paper with a satin red ribbon to work and opened
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I wasn’t sorry when Evi left home. I mean I was ,but I wasn’t going to let her know it. I don’t remember Mama; she went away with baby Ferenc after the spring rains. But Evi left school to care for Papa and me. She was a little mother. Papa was angry at first. He
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The car door slams. A headache sizzles at my temples. One hand drums angrily on the steering wheels. One child is whining while the other’s long thin legs pound the passenger seat’s back. I’m forgetting something, something important. Loading the trunk I unpack my brain. Traveling with children is like decamping a circus, I think
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What is that?A smell, not just bad it’s stickyCollecting on the bottoms of my shoesStalking my stepsSeeping into my fiber Its dank syrup stains my sleepLeaving me restlessTossing, turnt into this stink bereftWithout even the refuse of dreams As sharp as bone shardsRelentless as a headacheBurrowing into my temples’ sweet meatHas anyone has noticed the
circular staircase 