Poetry

I was sitting at a banquet table before the awards ceremony. 
A distinguished character actor, who narrated the PBS documentary
I saw last night, entered the banquet hall in a white jacket.

the belief was eels were male catfish,
believe if you leave a fried one alone 
return to red-raw meat, or a trickle 
trail of blood and crumb, a resurrection

“Up!” she signals, syllabic cup
     meaning wherever I am now—up
or down—floor, high chair—change direction!—

Thirty miles south of Dallas the air smells of ozone and water. Thunderheads on the horizon in shades of indigo.

A finger so tender 
the diminishing coneflower’s center shocks        
a needle

up through reaching skin

I pull down my black dress 
& feed my child. 

And when the rains came 
   like lean wolves 

we were ready.

The white slap of the moon after hail gone through
ivy to silver April’s first green blades: There I listened 

Cézanne doesn’t paint what he sees.
His apples are orange.

I am more than the world you asked me to be—