years old and sunk in the red velveteen
chair at the Fox Bay Theater, I absorbed
the raw sculpture of Penistone Crag,
bracken and gorse, the peat
blanketing the Yorkshire moors. Heathcliff
with his sea-green eyes, black cape swirled
around him, how tall and alarmingly
handsome he looked.
At Catherine’s grave he cried, you wrote:
I cannot live without my life,
desire held hostage in his eyes,
heart held stunned in my chest.
Years later, I return to your words;
travel to the stone-
flagged floors of your home;
your desk-box saved under glass,
its lining worn, purple velvet
splotched with red sealing wax.
Walking the rocky footpath towards swells
of purple heather, I remember the words
of the local stationer who saw you
returning one evening: her countenance was lit up
by a divine light. I imagine
I hear your skin
brush mine, whisper what you know:
the silence, the stars
that burn through the page.
Hone the hours to their core—you might have said—
wind and poem, passion and moor.
Lit the Lamps Ourselves (Salmon
CROCHETING IN AUTUMN
the silence of yarn,
the hook, shining
of gold, in
and out, the skeins unravelling
I would be Penelope, undoing
work each night, so as never
to reach the end of
wool under my hands,
sprawled on my lap
the plot of flowers
behind my grandmother’s grave,
sun that floods childhood
and all Septembers,
maple leaves falling
where my grandmother lies.
Cloth (Iris Press)
thanks to William Stafford
and write inside
good days, words beach up
like starfish splaying new arms;
my child laughs beside me.
speckles her wide brown eyes--
a mural of lost mammals
whose leaps I can believe in.
on the e-zine Blue Fifth Review.