POETRY COLLECTION:
What I Wore to the Mental Hospital
Is it a pink tulle or zebra stripe satin day? That drives my decisions on what to wear each day. So, clothes tell the story of my life -- from the crimson challis dress my grandma stitched to the roses I embroidered on a muslin peasant blouse. Here are some published poems from this collection which is dedicated to my mom.
Finishing Line Press first published “The Red Dress”
The Red Dress
Straight pins sprout from her lips like tinder as grandma
wraps and gathers and poofs this crimson challis.
I stand on her marble-topped coffee table while she squats
on a needlepoint footstool and says Turn. Turn. Turn. Eyes
straight ahead, please. A tailor’s pirouette.
I try not to flinch in anticipation of a pin prick
or to faint from thirst. Goosebumps tingle
every bit of me when her hand skims the back
of my knee. When you look away, grandma floats
falsies into my triple-A bra to fill my empty darts.
I want to pluck a fresh golden-eyed needle
from her foiled Woolworth pouch and help her
hem, the dit dit dah of a single blazing thread
invisible to everyone else. I want to watch her
iron until I can’t tell stitch from cloth.
Straight pins sprout from her lips like tinder as grandma
wraps and gathers and poofs this crimson challis.
I stand on her marble-topped coffee table while she squats
on a needlepoint footstool and says Turn. Turn. Turn. Eyes
straight ahead, please. A tailor’s pirouette.
I try not to flinch in anticipation of a pin prick
or to faint from thirst. Goosebumps tingle
every bit of me when her hand skims the back
of my knee. When you look away, grandma floats
falsies into my triple-A bra to fill my empty darts.
I want to pluck a fresh golden-eyed needle
from her foiled Woolworth pouch and help her
hem, the dit dit dah of a single blazing thread
invisible to everyone else. I want to watch her
iron until I can’t tell stitch from cloth.
Small Town Poetry Anthology first published “Sunday Dinners.”
Sunday Dinners
I listen after Mass while I embroider roses
on the yoke of a muslin blouse. Dad clanks
pots onto the stove and showers Crown Royal
into a Dixie cup. You rustle the newspaper laced
with names dead or dying. Some Sundays, dad hums
as he peppers the steak and spirits briquettes to inferno.
And your turning pages lulls me like waves wash
sand. Other Sundays, knife sputters interrupt
his silence, diced tomatoes splatter poultry.
In the living room, newsprint scrapes newsprint,
matchstick on flint. And I know, before my brothers
with their dirt-roped palms, before my sister
with her blond halo someone will cry at dinner.
I listen after Mass while I embroider roses
on the yoke of a muslin blouse. Dad clanks
pots onto the stove and showers Crown Royal
into a Dixie cup. You rustle the newspaper laced
with names dead or dying. Some Sundays, dad hums
as he peppers the steak and spirits briquettes to inferno.
And your turning pages lulls me like waves wash
sand. Other Sundays, knife sputters interrupt
his silence, diced tomatoes splatter poultry.
In the living room, newsprint scrapes newsprint,
matchstick on flint. And I know, before my brothers
with their dirt-roped palms, before my sister
with her blond halo someone will cry at dinner.
This poem was published in the Australian publication, Not Very Quiet. I traveled to Canberra, Australia when the journal debuted to read with the other authors. What a blast!
As the World Turns
Mornings, you scowl into your Playtex
girdle. Six garters swing inside your slacks
sprung from the grip of your Sunday
stockings. The power-net tummy panel
props your steps as you fling the Hoover
over beige wall-to-wall carpet, cord coiled
in your palm like fingers of a waltz partner.
Everywhere else you whip a Comet-crusted
rag until every scuff surrenders – just in time
for “As the World Turns”
and three Old Gold cigarettes.
The swell of your belly cradles
a tarnish-rimmed ashtray
still fragranced with cedar
from your claw-footed
hope chest.
Mornings, you scowl into your Playtex
girdle. Six garters swing inside your slacks
sprung from the grip of your Sunday
stockings. The power-net tummy panel
props your steps as you fling the Hoover
over beige wall-to-wall carpet, cord coiled
in your palm like fingers of a waltz partner.
Everywhere else you whip a Comet-crusted
rag until every scuff surrenders – just in time
for “As the World Turns”
and three Old Gold cigarettes.
The swell of your belly cradles
a tarnish-rimmed ashtray
still fragranced with cedar
from your claw-footed
hope chest.
"Learning Cursive" was published in Blue Heron Review, a lovely online journal, you'll find here. https://blueheronreview.com/bhr-issue-14-spring-2022/
Learning Cursive
Sister Dorothy’s chalk wand
dolled up the alphabet
like mascara and red
lipstick dressed our moms.
She showed us how to fuse
our clumsy marks into
molten loops and a girl’s
finest friend, curlicues.
I wanted to kiss each swipe
of those linked letters, touch
my tongue to the spaces
between each fluid word.
Even capital letters --
their perilous sweeps and
archaic frills — thrilled me.
I uncapped the crystal
throat of my blue BIC pen and
ravished spiral notebooks
with the sighs and whispers
of my new liquid name.
Sister Dorothy’s chalk wand
dolled up the alphabet
like mascara and red
lipstick dressed our moms.
She showed us how to fuse
our clumsy marks into
molten loops and a girl’s
finest friend, curlicues.
I wanted to kiss each swipe
of those linked letters, touch
my tongue to the spaces
between each fluid word.
Even capital letters --
their perilous sweeps and
archaic frills — thrilled me.
I uncapped the crystal
throat of my blue BIC pen and
ravished spiral notebooks
with the sighs and whispers
of my new liquid name.
Here is a poem I read at the Art as Poetry 2021 sponsored by The Lakeshore Artist Guild and Basil Ishkabibble's Art Gallery, both in Manitowoc, Wisconsin.
My First Blue Gill
His thumb on the silver skirt
of her tail, dad scrapes
her skin with the tip
of his bowie knife,
the whitewashed dock
sequinned with fish scales.
He squares his blade
at the base of her skull
where her gills pulse
and in one bloodless
steel flash he cleaves
her head from her body.
Then he slits the seam
of her belly, one palm flat
against her muscled ribs.
Her intestines unspool
as his fingers angle
inside her pale flesh.
He plunges her
in the shallows
for a final rinse,
a wreathe
of her viscera
circles his wrist.
Then he unfolds her
as if her spine
is the liquid thorax
of a butterfly and she
now is nothing
but wings.
His thumb on the silver skirt
of her tail, dad scrapes
her skin with the tip
of his bowie knife,
the whitewashed dock
sequinned with fish scales.
He squares his blade
at the base of her skull
where her gills pulse
and in one bloodless
steel flash he cleaves
her head from her body.
Then he slits the seam
of her belly, one palm flat
against her muscled ribs.
Her intestines unspool
as his fingers angle
inside her pale flesh.
He plunges her
in the shallows
for a final rinse,
a wreathe
of her viscera
circles his wrist.
Then he unfolds her
as if her spine
is the liquid thorax
of a butterfly and she
now is nothing
but wings.
Art+Lit Lab (ALL) in Madison published this poem online in 2021. Such a very fine organization.
Snake Molting
The itch starts at her eyes
and sweeps down the pulsing
muscle of her body.
She swells and shimmies
around fossil-pocked boulders,
silvered driftwood.
When she can’t find a bristled
surface, she loops into her own
strained and crusty flesh
and peels
herself
from herself.
She’s a single-limbed ballerina
tugging off her tights,
a wrinkled pool
of inside-out skin
coiled beside her,
traces of grass and beetle grub
still etched in its grooves,
her quaking spine sealed
in the gauze of new skin.
Snake Molting
The itch starts at her eyes
and sweeps down the pulsing
muscle of her body.
She swells and shimmies
around fossil-pocked boulders,
silvered driftwood.
When she can’t find a bristled
surface, she loops into her own
strained and crusty flesh
and peels
herself
from herself.
She’s a single-limbed ballerina
tugging off her tights,
a wrinkled pool
of inside-out skin
coiled beside her,
traces of grass and beetle grub
still etched in its grooves,
her quaking spine sealed
in the gauze of new skin.