The following piece appeared in The American Journal of Poetry:
Dusk, and my grandmother, the stronger woman,
is thrusting her small garden hoe at a green snake.
The only good one is a dead one, she says, striking.
She renders the creature into twitching tubes.
Its dilated eye is scared slitherless, growing glassier
while the yard dogs panic, wondering what’s next.
Cold apple-red blood spots the south porch concrete.
She rinses the serpent’s defeat away
with her green garden hose as crows
gather in the grove, awaiting pieces
of a small housewife’s victory
over history, over blame, over fear.
The following poem appeared at The Common online:
Rhythms inside their starter house still speak
to him: doors that won’t lock or seal only
come to with diminishing thumps,
leaving jamb-cracks for light or words.
Windows with glass like sheeting water
tremble when produce trucks monster
by – their loads overweight for his east-west road
the county left unpatched after summer floods.
Ripples of staircase rise: a certain scale.
His fingers plink the banister bars
as step-sounds’ muffled grumble warn:
He’s almost reached the landing.
Sitting out indecision at the top,
he refuses open rooms both right and left.
And the following shorter piece appeared in a recent issue of Steel Toe Review:
Return when my strong ghost is gone:
When the ax-yard stump’s black center
grows moss, when the barn rafters
lose my fingerprints, after every post
forgets the warmth of my work-breath.
No need to forever ask: Is this
how he did it? You know and will grow
your own ways – a man’s touch ingrained
for your children to find and recall
the knots of your knuckles, planks of your palms.