Inside the Confessional

A selection of my poems was recently published in Sixfold journal. Many thanks to the editors and the Sixfold poetry community. Poems are selected by popular vote by multiple readers. With tomorrow’s predicted snowfall, here’s the link and a few teasers:

Waiting for the Plowman
In the morning: Rousseau’s Confessions. Breakfast:
something forgettable and unfulfilling, toast,
the white of an egg circling a shiny yolk.

By midday, the desert of chalk buries the laurel
and watching juncos burrow under the feeder
suffices for motion. Blank under its plastic face

the kitchen dial signals two o’clock with sleek
anemic hands. Within the hour, sugar held
in the spoon’s mouth is let go into black liquid,

and boots, scuffed and sheltered alert the tangled
knit scarf to concoct itself. At four, shovel in hand
I depart to do the job myself. The man

and his truck are nowhere to be found
even though the blizzard’s end is new
and he promised and there is a lot of it.

Lighter than a pile of proverbial feathers
but sticky and heaping, the first bundle I take
begins to build a dune around the driveway

but there is nowhere else to go and no rest
and nothing to do to lessen the white
except to bend at the knees and let it fly.

Literally

She says without irony or modesty

I’m literally so irritated, as if irritation

could be anything other than literal . . . 

Bad Girls

The boy at the pub had blonding hair

and a round face

and we were cruel to him.  . . .

Instead of Poems

Instead of poems, I weed the sidewalk

and empty crevices of intruders.

sidewalk petunias

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