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Notebook and Pen

"A poem begins with a lump in the throat, a home-sickness or a love-sickness."

Robert Frost

Winter

Also I do not have a dog

I smile

at the neighbors 

out walking 

in their winter coats

"what a crazy time!"

we shout against the wind

smiling

until our teeth hurt

​

I do not see their faces

bundled up

against the cold

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but soon I know them

by their dogs. 

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Old Study

Things I carry

Once I sat and looked 
around my house 
and noticed
always its failings—
the mismatched furniture 
people
gave to me, yesterday’s messes 
still left
to straighten.

And then I looked
again one day 
when the world seemed hard
when the news was bad—
and I saw the worn place
on the couch,
all the old familiar,

and I was glad.

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Quarantined

spring comes regardless 

on the way to the mailbox, I did not notice the pink-white ghost buds 
unfolding on branches not yet green, I was breathing fine but my mind 
drowned in sickness, in bad news, 
my lungs heaved with sadness

in the driveway, the April afternoon was cold 
but still my children turned their faces to the sun

my husband took a photo of a blue jay resting in the tree outside and sent it to me

I know how you love birds

on the way to the mailbox, I heard the wind chimes next door offer a tentative hello 

and I thought maybe it was time 
for me to open just a little 
my window and my heart again.

Image by natasha ong

Morocco

The train is rumbling, rumbling

and we are stumbling, stumbling

down sultry gas lit halls

fingers skimming blue cardboard walls.


It’s twenty seven drunken paces

fasten the door with your shoelaces

first class to Marrakech

two hundred miles douse my flesh.


Kisses seasoned like a street bazaar

voices simmer from the dining car

my hand cups your mouth

Casablanca headed south.


And soon I am not your lover

not a wife or someone’s mother

I am all the land your hands can see

and the little hills you climb inside of me.


The curtains swell, blankets of ocean foam

native tongues from the hall will drown my moan

the open window speaks of country left to roam,

but to go with you is to always be home.


Darling, to go with you is to always be home.

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