What I'm Reading

In case you are looking for a really wonderful, unusual read, I highly recommend The Wood Wife by Terri Windling. Ethereal, poetic, and mythic - this is one of my favs.

I also recommend, if you enjoy mythic fiction, Endicott Scuttlebutt -- beautiful visual arts and a great resource on modern fantasy.

The things you deserve

you do not need the tree
since you've stolen the roots      you keep them in
water by your bed
you think you can control the weather
now      but you are wrong      sometimes
you fly your plane low
cutting cloudy foliage
scaring a deer and a rabbit      you think they get
lost in the confusion
what you deserve is a broken cello
a matted doll      burning hair
a spinster
things that cannot break
what you you deserve     knowing
what she thinks

The longest winter

Dinner is on the table
by 5 pm.
It is in his nature
to abide time. He wears his heavy coat and
she waits by the fire to warm his robe.
This evening the stars are black
with cold. He kisses her
hands rest
near his heart.
She was 12 when he traded his
best traps.
With 6 girls, they
would have taken less.
On the stove the stew boils,
a tub of hot water for soaking.
The barn has already been cleaned and locked.
The sheep and horse wait for light
to erupt.
She pulls the blade from behind
the knitting and touches it. The moose head
smiles. They wait
for the hunter to retire.

Being young

He wrote a poem about a dog. I
thought it was stupid at the time. It rhymed and
used an arsenal of adjectives to describe
wrinkles and bad skin,
lost teeth,
stink that stayed on after five washings.
He gave me a story about why humans
ceased to matter. He went to the mountains
to study goats. I thought him mad.
One time, I caught him climbing a tree in my yard. He
was seventeen and had not
seen a girl naked. It was his dog
gave him up, bored under the canopy.
When I asked him to come down, he pretended he
had spotted an eagle. Later
I wrote a poem about an eagle. It did not
rhyme. I knew the lines by heart.
It has since escaped.

Almost Light

There was one letter
written on a leaf,
sometime during August,
telling me about the red river,
the lack of water and the silver rocks
under the sun
like bloated fish bellies
and a new moon
We never talked because
what can a person say
to describe the way trees
whisper
or how frogs change songs
when mating

Quiet is what keeps us close
to humility,
and now that you have left,
meaning comes to me
in the form of branches
The wooden spouse
tricks the fawn into
hiding
If I am silent under
the sky,
love appears
and disappears
in morning light

One minute before dying

During the 11th hour
your need for sleep will cease
Food and sex,
other luxuries
will be trite - You'll forget
why he left or why you cried
You will be like arctic
cold - It will seem you may never get warm
It is the time of the below
Earthworms will line up
outside your door
During the 11th hour
a hum will intoxicate
Oxygen
and anesthesia will be source
of being
You will not care who you hurt
or if you are hurting
Here there is only lull
like the sleepy
baby fighting to survive
in a strange and
misinterpreted land