Lost Valley

She dances across the rocks
arms akimbo like an airplane
happy eyes and skin
drink in
the devastating depth
look skyward
spirals of spindly branches
with splashes of
ruby, tangerine and liquid sun
that drip one by one
then float to the earth
and sleep.

Riverwind

There are thirty-two canoes and when it is quiet and dark they escape the cabin into the map of the river. The buffalo watches, wishing. He stoically stares at the map, waiting, wanting their adventures. He remembers the river- the smooth stones, the breeze; the sunset leaves against the blue sky. He closes his eyes and conjures up the smell of autumn and movement. He hears the laughter of the water. When he opens his eyes he is on the other side. The little men from the cabin float by. It had taken years of focus, patience, and determination, and the water tasted better than he had ever dreamed.

14

A girl
with budding breasts
and skin like peaches
lay on the scratchy
argyle blanket
In the field
looking up at the stars
next to a boy
she secretly loved
praying to God
that his hand would
accidentally
brush against hers

I am from

I am from crickets and cicadas on hot August nights
from porch swings and hands like paper
I am from grape juice instead of wine
(where God entered papaw’s head every Sunday and flew out his mouth)

I am from fried chicken picked up at the corner store
mingled with the smell of gasoline
(just like heaven, I know)

I am from the sound of your heart breaking
as I left the church
as you gave away your sons
(the secret family, unspoken)
as you buried the dead baby who looked like me

I am from black sheep and hymnals
from baptisms in the river
from dusty roads that snake through the jungle

I am from the pageantry of small town
nowhere

Silence

If this ladle could talk, it would share stories of a life so beautiful
how it worked so hard on the day of rest
The feel of Mina’s soft hands
anticipation of being immersed in the
hot, fragrant soup
as it scooped the matzo balls
floating like heavenly bodies
in the balmy broth

it would tell you about the company kept
how it
yearned to touch the crisp, white tablecloth
nearly stroked the golden braided bread
loved to look at the candles burning in the
sterling silver candlesticks
the scent of cinnamon
escaping the spice box

If this ladle could talk, it would sing to you
about
the music of its life
the rhythmic and ancient prayers
rolling from their lips
the family
joined in joyful songs
papa’s booming voice
as he placed his powerful hands on the children’s heads
and blessed them in the name of
Sarah Rachel Rebecca Leah Ephraim Menache

If this ladle could talk, it would share with you
how Mina’s hands became rough and cold
the soup turned to beets
then water
then air

how it
lay entwined with the tablecloth
no longer white
as they huddled together for warmth
hiding in the floor of the cold, dark ghetto

it would cry to you of how it
hungered for its companions
who one by one
disappeared
the spice box, now empty
the candlesticks, stuffed with cotton
when the candles were all gone

If this ladle could talk, it would sing to you
about the prayers, turned to whispers
like papa’s voice
as the blessings
Sarah Rachel Rebecca Leah Ephraim Menache
all gone

it would tell you
of ____

Response to Writen in Pencil in a Sealed Railway Car by Dan Pagis

Written in Pencil in a Sealed Railway Car- Dan Pagis

here in this carload
i am eve
with abel my son
if you see my other son
cain son of man
tell him that i

(by Suki Highers)

am sorry i ate the apple
but it was red delicious and beautiful
i am sorry that my act
(so human)
created that which we call sin
sin begat sin
murder
the first
brought on by jealousy
from greed

tell him that i
love him
even though
he has put us on this
train
toward death
but it was red beautiful and delicious

I Have a Mad Renaissance Crush on Botticelli

As I turn the pages of the magazine, I imagine life for the girls inside. They sleep with nothing on, removing their skin each night and placing it in the icebox. Upon waking they slip it on over their bones, and eat a breakfast of non-fat yogurt before rushing to the tanning bed to change the color of their husk. They alter the hue of their hair, as well as its texture using heat to dispose of their curls. To my lover, Botticelli (a long distance relationship of time and space), they look like peasants. I am a queen in his creation. He relishes in my pale skin and tickles the curve of my belly with his paintbrush on the canvas. He gets lost in my soft thighs and worships every one of the curls plated in gold that fall down my back. After he paints me, we take a cup of chocolate together. We laugh about how art and beauty will take such a twist in the future, how the students in my class will not recognize me in his masterpiece.