Stirring, Linoleum

From Worm Moon, American Moons, recently published and available on Amazon


The moon sets wide on water –
I am claimed by flint
close at hand, the scent
of matted oak leaves.
Roots and reeds, always
the same slow ache of waking.

Loosed from aspen, spokes
of ice pierce the grained snow.
Grey hour breaks and shadows
blanch. Day patterns the sky –
a spendthrift wind unsettles.

Crow knows, heavy
on the topmost branch,
his call cleans the whole sky.


Mid-morning loneliness
stirs in the walls. I wipe a milk
spill from the table. Gulls circle
above the chimney ventilators.

My husband, my friends’husbands,
have walked to work. I listen
to the radio gossiping. Over linoleum
squares, the children drive

their trucks to market. I face
the fire escape’s wrought iron march
down bricks across the way. Napkins
toss in the dryer, wind blown clouds.

I have let go of my job, the fashion
desk, my typewriter stored safe
on ordered shelves with Mother’s silver
to be set out if occasion calls.

Solstice, Pouvrai

From Hunger Moon, American Moons, recently published and available on Amazon


In the neighborhood
houses loom and lighten slow,
shadow sliding down the yards.
Chimneys breathe against the snow.

Every day I climb the chain
link fence, weaving stanzas.
Shapes bend and figures
interlock in winter dances.

Mice scamper in the wall,
nibble at the raveled hour along
old thoughts, old shell of wasp,
beam suspended like a song.

Panes laced in rhyme – the ice
has hardened – starlings
beat against the window, climb
wing by wing of feathered daring.


You were a language I took
delight in. Some words
laughter – some eager
like the river of your voice.

We walked in Pouvrai’s woods –
I asked for French – la fougere,
le buis, l’argile. We found a stone
cottage, its roof curled like fern.

Inside, a scallop shell
of pilgrimage carved
in the hearthstone.
Mourning doves settled

on that broken stoop
lowing, then scattered –
every strut a hieroglyph.
We could have stayed.

We could have healed
the lintel, reglaxed sunfired
panes, mended the leading.
We might have made do.