First Draft

Trash Can

Green hard plastic crouches in
warm and oil-heavy garage.

Secure the lid,
Shy horse being bridled.

Scraps of unwanted day;
unbeautiful goes in here.

Lead the container of castoffs out
into sudden sun.
Back for you soon.

Writing Assignment Two

Water Heroes

Willows
smudge

earthy
edges

Twain
and
Jim

raft
by

on
endless
blue.

Writing Assignment Three

Only One Now

Not a heart person, I choose a heart. Shocked
out of our grief stupor we become absorbed consumers.
Arriving in her town we smelled the thick spicy wood smoke
and tasted the metal of coming snow.
They are out of stars so my niece slowly points to a butterfly--
even Dad carefully chooses a tiny jade box.
I wear the heart more than I thought I would
People sometimes admire it glinting like her laugh
When I’m feeling cruel and angry I touch it at my throat
It’s my sister, I say, and watch their eyes widen.

Writing Assignment Four

Star

It looks like a girl, dark mass of hair; she is spinning slowly
Difficult to make out through the trees—Stop, Bob, I say
Is that a nightgown she’s wearing? She’ll trip.
Twirling, her steps are sure, bare legs winking

Her hands clasped now above her head
Her feet a blur, a Hindi dancer with moonshine splashing
Her face, lighting her lifting hair—what will
The neighbors think

REVISED POEMS

Trash Can

Green hard plastic crouches in the
warm and oil-heavy garage.
Secure the lid carefully;
the can is a shy horse being bridled.
Scraps of unwanted day--
unbeautiful goes in here:
yogurt lids that slide down the bag sides
and coffee grounds which grit into everything.
Lead the container into sudden sun--
docile creature—
patting it absently
I think to myself,
back for you soon.

Writing Assignment Two

Water Heroes

Willows smudge
earthy edges, a

a painting that
never sets.

Eternally stroking,
the artist plies the brush

and Twain and Jim
raft by
on endless Williamsburg blue. 

Writing Assignment Three

For LaRae

Not a heart person, I choose a heart. 
Shocked out of our grief stupor
we become absorbed consumers.

Arriving in her town the wood smoke
stealthily climbs our hair and
silently drives into our nostrils. 

Knife-sharp, eye-watering,
the smoke is wet wood
 forced into the stove before its time.

Outside, we taste the metal of coming snow;
it jolts and jars like biting down on fillings.

Stomping in the frigid black air,
raw with feeling, for no stupid reason
we look up into the night.

Inside the funeral home they are out of stars, so
my niece slowly points to a butterfly
while Dad stares, clasps his hands,
considers a tiny jade box,
and finally looks to us
but does not see.

I wear the heart necklace more
than I thought I would;
I fasten it on every morning
as if to keep an eye on her.

Sometimes people admire it glinting like her laugh.  
When they do,
if I’m feeling hard and sad,
I touch it at my throat.

It’s my sister, I say,
and watch their eyes widen.

Writing Assignment Four

Star

It looks like a girl, dark mass of hair; she slowly spins, but it’s
 difficult to make out through the trees—stop, Bob, I say breathlessly.
Is that a nightgown she’s wearing?  She’ll trip.

Twirling, her steps are sure as Monday, bare legs winking.
Her hands clasped now above her head,
her feet a blur,
a Hindi dancer with moonshine splashing her face,
lighting her lifting hair—

I press my fingers to my open mouth—
where does she find the joy?
I slap the steering wheel.  Bob, drive on!
What will the neighbors think?

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Last Modified: 10/02/2009