Waiting for the Plane

The paint on her toes, curled against the cold, unearths me. How it begins. This winter light. She has: a dish to sell, and red soil ground into the fold of a letter. Her toes, curled against the cold. She gives me her name. Two bags that hold a spoon for bread, her smile, wide…

Thunder calls me from the dishes

Thunder calls me from the dishes                last night’s arguments dissolving in bubbles to the door. Open it: the world comes alive. Silver sky, wet earth, the great pause as the heat breaks. The leaves fidget, the dog fidgets, the baby fidgets in sleep. Then a ripple across the sky. I close my eyes and…

Sea gong

You’re wrong, of course. A wave is something, tumbling us against the rocks until we are light and silver and sculpted as wood. Breathe. And watch the air take flight.     (My respectful response to Lesley Wheeler, whose poem “The Sea Does Not Exist” appeared in The Malahat Review 190 (Spring 20150) p. 10,…

Bagpipes

Eyes and ears wide open, bums on hard wood, bodies twitching.  Silver fish and the words washing like water. The rattle of medals. The mic listing in the waxy hand. The years unwound. Sisters grown into women. Not fallen, but dead. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING