You are pregnant, the doctor says, I am sorry, leaves
float golden orange, he turns away, his white coat, his big
shoulders, between twig and ground, are you sure, the girl says,

a hundred starlings, it’s all she can think to say, light
among red oak branches, except then she cries, their voices
like the voices of the thousand leaves, what else to do

with shame and sin and no one will forgive you now, beyond
the trees, you little whore, she can hear the baby’s father, a
woman stands, except then, she says, inside the sobs she says,

she raises both her arms in salutation, is there anything you
can do, it being 1954, it being Texas, two hundred wings,
and this being unforgivable, he turns and says, a single

bellows whooshing, No, I’m sorry, and when her mother
slams her hands against the steering wheel, pushing air,
and says, what have you done to me, in close formation, and

when her father says, like a cloud, I will have to resign
from the ministry, she breathes the risen wind, she knows
there was nothing anyone could do, and she enters the small
cottage among trees.

(originally published in The Berkshire Review, Volume Ten, 2002; nominated for Pushcart Prize in Poetry)

It is always yellow, your color,
your hair, the light I saw when you were

born, yellow like raw silk, goldenrod
like laughter. Now, yellow moves on walls,

late afternoon, the time of day you died.
It’s lovely here at home in winter. Sky so clear

the swollen moon should fall from lack
of holding. It’s lovely, skeletons of oak

and birch and beech run black like ink
pulled wet across the tender yellow

sky. It’s lovely here. You died
in February on a day so cold I huddled

in the bus toward home. Snow was yellow-
brown on roads, no sun. Not then, not

for a long, long time. In the hospital,
your hair was streaked as though by rivulets

of tears. The kitchen phone was ringing,
the voice dulled and yellow. It could not say

your son has hung himself, it said something
is wrong, Mrs. There is a kind of yellow

in a black-eyed susan’s heart, the tiny points of pollen
waiting. From these more flowers bloom

or honey flows, or mothers draw their sustenance
when spring arrives and something yellow grows.

(originally published in The Berkshire Review, Volume Eleven, 2003)

Pouring, pouring, pouring, if I hold my hands this certain,
not quite touching, open to the sea breeze wind-breeze
waves soft as eyes of seals, gently water-wood,

through rain that angles hands not touching, fingers letting
water’s sheen, pouring thickly, sweetly, rain like vinegar, like fire.
If I hold hands this certain, not quite touching, not quite holding,

not quite hands, this not quite certain way, if I remember eyes,
mouth sucking not quite touching, mouth wide open, body
hanging, not quite dying. If I hold my eyes this certain, not

quite looking, lids not closing, face not turning, if only
not quite touch him pouring, pouring, eyes of sapphires,
eyes of caves, the hands wide open, mouth like momma,

momma. If I not quite grasping, stroking, if I certain
breathing, beating heart. If I not quite hold my heart,
the pouring, pouring, pouring, he is with me, never leaving,

nothing staying, nothing weeping, nothing pouring,
pouring, letting, letting. If I hold my mouth the certain words,
graceful, words the grateful, if not quite holding, pouring,

pouring, let the thankful, thankful, thankful.

(originally published in The Berkshire Review, Volume Twelve, 2004)