I should have written this poem two days ago when the trees were faint chartreuse clouds, a dogwood gleaming white through the haze, wisteria high above the houses in the pine branches. But I didn't and today the leaves are tending towards their summer green. Hiding spring.
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Red on Red
In the rain a cardinal sits eating red berries.
The magnolia and holly make a little grove in the corner of the yard. Bare branches and one yellow daffodil. The fog has lifted.
I’m so Detroit…
I'm so Detroit I lived on Atkinson, Chicago, Calvert,Oregon, Fairfield, North Martindale, Linwood, Glendale, Monterrey and the Brewster projects. I'm so Detroit most of those houses have been torn down or are in ruin. I'm so Detroit the schools my parents and I attended are gone. I'm so Detroit I marched for Freedom down Woodward in 1963 and against the War in Vietnam in 1966. I'm so Detroit I was art editor for the South End when John Watson became editor. I'm so Detroit I met my husband at the Detroit Public Library. I'm so Detroit I remember before the Elm trees were cut down. I'm so Detroit we returned light bulbs to the 12th street Edison's for free replacements. I'm so Detroit I worked Christmas seasons at downtown Hudson's. I'm so Detroit I spent the 1967 riot/rebellion at my grandmother's 2 blocks from 12th and Atkinson where it all started. I'm so Detroit I remember living upstairs from Beans Bowles on Calvert. I'm so Detroit I remember walking home for lunch, milk in milk shutes, fudgeikkles and wine candy. Maybe I'm not "so Detroit", maybe I'm just "so old."
Morning
Lying here in the dark breathing in breathing out. Morning light seeping in around the curtains. Breath in, hold, exhale. Breath, hold, exhale.
Shadow Gray
shadow gray like grains of shells worn down by ocean waves. shadow gray like scum on top of brown rice. shadow gray like your eyes. shadow gray.
Morning
One by one, I
raise the paper
shades and let
the morning in.
Blue Sky, Gold Leaf
One golden leaf against
the blue sky.
Then it’s
gone.
Goats
“A few pigmy goats would clean
this yard right up.”
He said, looking at the
overgrown green
through the window.
Forty years ago he suggested
six milk goats, and
left town. Buckets
of milk overflowed
my kitchen table.
Next Time
In my next life
I’ll dance like
Antonia La Singla.
My hands like
birds, my heavy
hair swinging.
