The river is edged with ice.
Small colonies of slush float
along its rippled skin.The grass is all white-tipped
in the morning. It is so cold
couples walk without speaking.The house smells of spoiled fruit,
hot-house roses standing too long
in stagnant water. I sleepin your bed, under my grandmother's
comforter. It is hard to stay warm.
Tomorrow I will make your blackbean soup, garnished with green
onions, sour cream, white cheese.
Your great aunt's Roseville vasewill hold new flowers. I'll choose
red and white carnations, pretend
it's spring, listenfor your step on the path.
POEMS
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C - D
E - F
G - H
I - J
K - L
M - N
O - R
S
W - Z
MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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