the father with the wickedness still wiling 

in a self-exile to the florida keys

who pops up periodically uninvited

but most unwelcome in the dream land

with boundaries lost in the wash

leaving a smudge on the day

of complicity in something that was 

never ours in the first place

Genevieve at the window

Genevieve at the window 
watches for signs 
of spring– 

        cherry and plum pops bright in the nose 

        the great green return of gentle shade
It is January.  

The neighbors pass 
on by. Children, 
like conifers, grown 
are long gone. There used to be
a blue pool,
dogs, sometimes 
a husband...

Still Genevieve 
clutches her red 
walker waiting–

        bath aide on Wednesdays
        oxygen drone in the dark
Boredom spreads like black
eyed Susans in summer.

She thinks she will last

until then.

Home and Away

Feeling my way round or for the grease of a plate,

like making a wine glass sing,

or it's caked with soap,

residue blasted to dust and fingers

bump like the runway wheels,

knowing either way will be a return 

to shelf or rack.

I don't want my trips,

want unyoking, 

but I'm not wed to the act

as endurance,

rather the suspense of not knowing

if the washer is filling or emptying

does feel like a hinge that is

lacking once I'm away.