Poetry Archives

Icicles like ladies’ fingernails
hang over the driveway, threatening
each day to fall.
                        The frost from last night’s

snowfall twists through the air—it comes
off of anything solid, lifts from the dead

rose bushes left unsnipped, plastic bags
clinging madly in the thorns.  Sometimes

I want to be like you—arising lemon mouthed
into the shower, water droplets
    gliding down your surfaces.

You, who drive without wonder
everyday to work.

Sometimes I hide so well I can’t find
even myself.  It’s easy to disappear.  Over a bowl
of black-eyed peas it could be any day

and then you leave.