Sammy


Here
and then again
not here.
A choice? Maybe. A defense?
More likely. The one path still open
for self-determination
when if
is no longer possible,
when where
is no longer possible,
when why
has worn a hole
through a floor scattered with shell casings.
How
still can sometimes
be grasped in our hands.


Fly, dear friend,
with God, with hope,
with all our love.

Aunt

I loved
all
the little children
one
by one they left
taken
to new places by jobs
schools, families, wanderlust,
or the simple busyness of life,
growing up,
growing old
loving their own
little children.

Tsunami

The slow sun turns to morning, burning
through shade and drape like a surgeon’s laser
trims fat. My children ran to catch starfish
when waves peeled back,
ready for one grand
surge,
that took homes, gardens,
and laughter. It is too late now
to build arks or prayers,
and no one in particular
to forgive. There is only the sun
and me watching it.

Available in The Scent of Water on Mirrors
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