Day XII

wings of midnight
beating at the windows
pawing at the doors
ebony hooves

breath steaming
fogging the shadows
flailing anxiously
mane of tangled fury

fever rising

Day XI

she shuddered at the thought of the chicken coop
the long climb half way up the hill
only to have to crawl over the door jam
why is a door jam a foot off the ground anyway

gamely she gathered the coffee can into the crook of her arm
rusted, dented, bits of straw sticking to its insides
from other eggs gathered on other days
why do grandkids always have to do the yucky jobs

squaring her shoulders she ignored the grandmother
who called to her to be careful with the eggs
careful with the hens, but never a word about the girl
did the grandmother only care about the eggs and the horrid chickens

up and over the door jam, the coop was suffocatingly humid, hot,
dank, fetid, dust motes stalked one another
never gaining, but floating, swirling, pas de deux,
did the dancer-stalkers ever tire and long for rest

hope was dashed as the girl found hens on their nests
dismayed, trepidatious, anxious, nervous,
she must reach under the hens, braving their nasty beaks,
was she more afraid of the grandmother than the beady-eyed hens

start with the empty nests, she told herself, easiest first,
self-talking confidence as she placed the eggs, but carefully, of course,
into the coffee can, watching the level rise, until at last
she must carefully slide her hand under the hens on their nests

relief, she approached the the last nest with only a smattering
of red swollen blotches dotting her right forearm,
egg after egg until there was no more room in the coffee can
should she just push the eggs down to make more room

pushing always worked when hiding dirty clothes under her bed,
toys into her toy trunk, crayons into the crayon box
pushing peas around her plate until dinner was over
yes, a little push was just the answer now

Day X

Here, he said handing me a fox pelt,
Everything must go.
Start with the books -
Take down the books
And go through them.

Startled I awoke.

Why the fox pelt?
But moreover, why the books?

Which books?  Where?
What could be hidden?
Tomorrow I will start
Volume by volume
Dust jacket by dust jacket
Endsheet by endsheet
page by page,

Searching for traces, any trace,
of him who gave me the books.

Or must I read them?

Day 9

once
long ago
when I missed you
I wrote lonely sad poems

not
knowing
what short a time
it would be till missing is

forever.

Day 8

heaven sent
feathers on the wind
slowly shrinking to
just snow

heaven sent
children of the storm
slowly growing to
just because

heaven sent
floating like a butterfly
stinging like a bee
some bee

Day 7

her mother slipped from this earth
just the other day
lights flashing, sirens screaming
on their fruitless run

she sorrows, dreads tomorrow,
new grave marked among its silent neighbors
marked by stone, under wind socks,
serenaded by wind chimes

she clings to her mother's hand
stroking the flesh from whence her flesh
and tracing the bones from whence her bone
were born.

mother, brother, husband,
now keep vigil on their daughter, sister, wife.

Day Six

called by numbers,
never names,
brings sorrow to a soul.

nameless, nontitled,
undefined, disinherited,
dissipated in death.

numbers seldom names,
count off succulence
from the staves

of eternal poetic refrains
inked by masters of the middle-aged.