Come home.
I will feed you
pasta and pears,
Jorge's burnt-tongue
chili, Aunt Millie's
buttermilk pie.In the blue
mornings, we will
sit by the east
window. I will
soothe you with
soup and milk,sweeten you with honey
and chocolate,
cappuccino
in the afternoons,
sweet wine
at night.Your skin, pale
and dry from long
absence, will fill
and flush
with peppers
and garlic.
POEMS
A - B
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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