Father's Day

Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago...


First Period

my father brought me flowers,
cheerful in the vase as I cramped,

embarrassed by their public color,
his male mention of my new body,

Today when I bled
I remembered the cone of blossoms.

Now he is gone.
Now my shame is done.

All that remains is my memory
of petals and stems

and grant us this,
red bloom of truce.

weather

Here's a recent poem I wrote on the subject...

The Weather
Adult topic
of last resort,
it was not to be questioned
or moved by our actions
then-

when I was knee high to the world
ravished by its largeness
untarnished by hubris.

Summer’s scorch on skin
that vast,
comforting indifference
of blue sky
beneath my feet
when Up I swung

The drumhum rain
on the tin roof
while sleeping snug or scared

this at least seemed certain,
Fall, Winter, Spring, Summer

Now everyone agrees-
too much exhalation
causes disruption

I read the thread of ice
worn thin
while my fridge still whirs
and out my window
the continuing unblinking blue
behold

floods

Today I read about the floods in India. 4000 people are dead and the severity is being attributed to climate change. It made me think of this poem that I heard on the radio by Kay Ryan.
The Fabric of Life

It is very stretchy.
We know that, even if
many details remain
sketchy. It is complexly
woven. That much too
has pretty well been
proven. We are loath
to continue our lessons
which consist of slaps
as sharp and dispersed
as bee stings from
a smashed nest
when any strand snaps—
hurts working far past
the locus of rupture,
attacking threads
far beyond anything
we would have said
connects.