winter 2019, continued








Son
by Sharon Olds

Coming home from the women-only bar,
I go into my son’s room.
He sleeps — fine, freckled face
thrown back, the scarlet lining of his mouth
shadowy and fragrant, his small teeth
glowing dull and milky in the dark,
opal eyelids quivering
like insect wings, his hands closed
in the middle of the night.

Let there be enough
room for this life: the head, lips,
throat, wrists, hips, penis,
knees, feet. Let no part go
unpraised. Into any new world we enter, let us
take this man.



winter 2018-19

















It was as if Winter was saying to us:
"This is reality, whether you like it or not.
All those frivolities of summer,
the light and shadow, the living mask of green that trembled over everything,
they were lies.
This is what is underneath, this is the truth."

- Willa Cather (My Antonia)







there was doughnut in his hair


Sunday Dinner

One wants
in a fantastic time
the certainty of
chicken popping in grease
the truth of potatoes
steaming the panes and
butter
gold and predictable as
heroes in history
melting over all.

Lucille Clifton

summer 2018, continued

























"Its been autumn in this garden for twenty years.  For twenty years it's smelt like this, and he's unlocked the garden gate in just this way and locked it again behind him.  Time here is like a vast country to which one can return home season after season."  -  Jenny Espenneck