Three Poems

“I Am Composing a Song”
”Incompatible”
”That Ancient Village”

Clearing out My Mother’s Home

The bowl perfectly new
in a cupboard full of things unused,
bought in anticipation
of a grandchild never delivered

Screamer

Rubbing his mitts and clearing his throat, he warmed up with a few mi-mi-mis, the Caruso of Camp Bowie Boulevard. Finally, a truck rumbled past; he let out a scream. Not a soul heard him.

Raised by Wolves

I shiver, understand as always
my teeth rotted and dull.
Even my father, that son of a bitch,
kept his bite until the end.
I was always ignored
last to marrow
flitching bits from
other’s old kills.

I Lied When I Said That I Missed You

and yes, I love this life that I have
built, slow mornings and love that keeps
me warm, but a thrum beneath my
breastbone may always sing
for the chaos that I learned to call
home, for that eternal yearning
for something, anything to burn

The Burnt Plane

I crawled into the space behind him and sat on the wet grass. The last time I’d seen this plane was in the newspaper photo my mom had shown me, its black tail smoking and sticking straight up out of the corn field where Mr. Murphy had been crop-dusting.

Sonar

Dandelion puffs hung like ghosts along the front porch. The house was silent. Seven peach pies cooled in the kitchen. Aunt Iris was out back, lying on the ground in front of Uncle Johnny’s shed, her blue dress darkened with sweat. Overalls lay neatly beside her. Her hand was in one of the pockets.