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.
This poem appeared first in Poised in Flight.
Your Best Bow
Cerulean daisies speckle
my eighth-grade graduation
dress. The scoop collar flaunts
the strut and knob of my clavicle.
Sashes trail like two spare limbs
as I find you in the kitchen.
You yank me to you, kneel
at my patent leather and snatch
the ends off the linoleum. My ribs
to your cheek, your arms circle
me to knot a bow at my behind
where neither of us can see.
Then you twist me to face
the stove and fluff it. There
you say and turn to the sink,
deaf to the groan of my
new wings.
Your Best Bow
Cerulean daisies speckle
my eighth-grade graduation
dress. The scoop collar flaunts
the strut and knob of my clavicle.
Sashes trail like two spare limbs
as I find you in the kitchen.
You yank me to you, kneel
at my patent leather and snatch
the ends off the linoleum. My ribs
to your cheek, your arms circle
me to knot a bow at my behind
where neither of us can see.
Then you twist me to face
the stove and fluff it. There
you say and turn to the sink,
deaf to the groan of my
new wings.
This poem first appeared in Literary Mama.
Combat Ready
When I see a boy with a stick I see
my son four years old -- binoculars
in the crook of his elbow, plastic blade
daggered into his fatigues, a quiver
of suction-cupped arrows lashed
to his back. As we hike, he marshals
other munitions. Tines of dried leaves
scuffle on the whole branch he drags,
his footprints raked clean. His eyes rivet
as prairies ripple maybe by wind maybe
by an assassin. He palms a nub
of wood stripped of bark, a pistol.
His body a turret, suddenly me
his prey.
Combat Ready
When I see a boy with a stick I see
my son four years old -- binoculars
in the crook of his elbow, plastic blade
daggered into his fatigues, a quiver
of suction-cupped arrows lashed
to his back. As we hike, he marshals
other munitions. Tines of dried leaves
scuffle on the whole branch he drags,
his footprints raked clean. His eyes rivet
as prairies ripple maybe by wind maybe
by an assassin. He palms a nub
of wood stripped of bark, a pistol.
His body a turret, suddenly me
his prey.
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.
This poem appeared first in 3 Elements Review
Maybe It Starts Here
Your father’s sister tends
the metronome of her son’s needs –
breast, swaddle, swaddle, breast –
her lover gone. Until she creeps
towels beneath her son’s door,
the kitchen door. The oven valve
hisses. She genuflects. The slip
beneath her housecoat bared.
The fuel once gaslight
for streetlamps now tinder
to other darkness. Your father
finds her body.
Maybe It Starts Here
Your father’s sister tends
the metronome of her son’s needs –
breast, swaddle, swaddle, breast –
her lover gone. Until she creeps
towels beneath her son’s door,
the kitchen door. The oven valve
hisses. She genuflects. The slip
beneath her housecoat bared.
The fuel once gaslight
for streetlamps now tinder
to other darkness. Your father
finds her body.
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.