Poetry

I swept the weeping willows under my pillowcase. there is no time for grief or for hanging too low. we are not allowed to brush people on the shoulder, tap consciousness into them

Out the back of the museum, across the footbridge, through the native Chumash garden, among the quiet of live oaks, along the path and up the steps, and just beyond the sign that

One sonnet can imbue a history With upright strength when shouted prose demands It bow to fear or riches. Emma writes Though publishers refuse her name in print, Though civil rights do not

Houses painted like the inside of fruit. Mango, guava, papaya with beady eyes. Houses with roofs like ski hats. Casas in flaming hues. Casa with lawns like sloppy husbands or gated and manicured,

And in the marshy field that drinks some of this river, legs muffed in shifting steam, pale geese negotiate and wrangle, preen and complain, beaks the black of a leather glove and gauntlets