Sleepy boy in the passenger seat my charge my joy my sidekick
oh look how the coyote considers crossing the boulevard to the river
how at the cemetery gate a wild turkey sneaks an exit
remember always the day of the heron a Great Blue appearing in front of us
no one walking no other cars just ours heading over the hillcrest
and there it was my god a god!
so graceful huge slow to move lifting up with fan wings
each the size of you taking flight across the outbound lane.
--Appeared, Fall 2013 Muddy River Poetry Review
Tough Trek
What the ranger did was lock up his little hut, drive away, leave us hiking, out whereabouts unknown to anyone else, we three in a foreign country.
Setting out there'd been no list to add our names, only a sign —you know the one-- about how you must Proceed at Your Own Risk.
Absolutely alone to negotiate the path on a ridge in the rainforest, soft earth underfoot, orbiting, a volcanic lake below us,
we go climbing into the clouds: shaky legs, vertigo, water bottles empty too soon, and the color green teasing us to rest.
We hear our hearts beating as if they are outside the body in the orchids clinging to the trees. We thump our way forward
through mist, rip-rap, displaying the height of ignorance, believing as gospel truth the guidebook rating—this climb easy-- hey, a stroll in the park, or a day at the beach.
Turning back we know will be as difficult as keeping on; giving up, simply out of the question.
I hug the ground on the down slope though perfectly fine going up hill. It is my way to clutch at roots.
Are the orchids really beating and is the air thick with wings?
The students in this class, all women and only the one from Poland might be called stylish. She paints her fingernails a color she says is called: I'm Not Really a Waitress.
At Christmas she buys the teacher a gift, a wool challis scarf, and another day remarks when entering the classroom: You look good wearing black.
But even she is sensible, once bringing to class a loaf of Polish Rye, the lesson not even about bread.
Next to her, an elegant Haitian woman keeps trying to hold onto a word. She is a natural beauty, yet her manner is not. She has admitted to everyone, she loves the movies.
Examine, too, her grace and her lovely French accent, nearly Parisienne. And do not ignore the obvious, that even a white uniform looks good on her.
Who would be surprised to know that now, learning English my Chinese students want words to describe bolts of cloth they remember nudging past a needle at the sewing bench, stitching a collar, a hem, an ornamentation?
Even without my help they know the English words: wool, cotton, rayon, linen. Interested in fabric, style, craft
these tailors, dress and lace makers, weavers and knitters who have embroidered flowers on silk, what they want from this lesson is something more subtle, asking for how to say spots, lines, squares. I give them new words: stripe, plaid, polka dot, the more delicate dotted Swiss.
I cut up old clothes and bring swatches, showing them herringbone, hound's-tooth, black watch, and glen plaid. They admire my hair, curly on a humid day, but I love theirs, straight and silky in any weather. They want to know if I have a permanent wave. --Appeared in Levure Litteraire: levurelitteraire.com, Accueil (number) 3