POEMS
1950s: Ode to the Female Body
for these bodies
for these mounds of women flesh
for the way breasts rise and fall on the bone
for these lungs
for the taking of breath
for the reach of these arms
for the way the back bends down generations
hanging worn clothes
for women’s hands gripping
wicker baskets drawstring bags clasping pins
for the smells of fresh sheets billowing
post world war air
for petticoats ruffled party dresses dancing the line
for white shirts checked pajamas sunned on rough cord
for blue jeans cotton socks drip of watery threads
for bent hips
cotton sheets folds of pillow cases washcloths and towels
for mother and grandmother’s hands
fastening life in its place
for the sweat of women soaping scrubbing rinsing
wringing out hanging up taking down folding away
garments of days
for the girth of women’s bodies
for the breadth of women’s ways
First published in Sinister Wisdom
Who Said It Got Easier as Women Get Old?
A cotton housedress of a woman
ace bandages circle
grandmother’s legs.
Safety pins clasp
frayed corset beneath.
Afternoons she
smells of flour
green apple pies.
I want to ask
what it’s like
getting old.
Why she groans
pinning sheets on
backyard lines.
Why Helen Trent broadcasts
kitchen’s radio stories
not the TV.
What happened after
Bertha got Alzheimer’s and
Aunt Lilian died.
I can’t stop this body’s
counting the time.
How blood purples
top layers of skin.
Safety pins hoist
bras holding
yesterday’s dreams.
Why grandma’s pain twists
the thumbs of my hands.
At Dollar Tree I bump into
a lost woman
browsing cards on the rack.
Her hair smells of mothballs
old Life magazines.
Beige poly pants
checkered blouse
vintage Midwest.
She can’t remember
where she’s left her daughter or
her daughter’s child.
Her green basket rolls on.
Perhaps the next aisle.
First published in The Fruit Slice
In the Distance
The canopy of civilization is burnt out.
~Virginia Woolf
In the old Jewish cemetery Earth and roses
flung on mother and grandmother’s graves.
Those women walk with me now
I ask Why we are taking this road?
Faces scarved to the winds they murmur
There is nowhere to go.
Sandaled feet no longer dancing.
Toes awash with dried tears.
They cry out
We are all of us walking this road.
Without water. Without food.
Twisted bodies dead in the road.
War shadowed dusty dresses walking this road.
Bloodied women’s arms wailing this road.
Blanket swathed babies.
Mothers reluctantly treading this road.
Bereft of homelands.
Refugees aimlessly walking this road.
Houses bombed families destroyed.
People tremble this road.
No place to go.
Endless rows of humanity.
We are all. Every one of us.
Walking this road.