of a picked lilac
Acorn No 32. Spring 2014
I rap on the metal door, and pigeons flutter in the rafters. We step inside. Tiny bones litter the floor.
the spider’s web
A dark splotch of blood staining the pelt, the flies scattering and then falling back, her silvery teats shimmering with mother love.
A swath of dark blue on the horizon . . . As I drive, the blue bruises to black. Bright desert sands deepen to dusk. The wall of clouds drops closer.
Taking Stock, Modern Haiku, Volume 46.3
The crook of my arm is sticky with sweat. I roll over in bed. A strange bed but almost comfortable. Stretching out a foot, I feel for the cat that isn’t there.
The sunlight is too bright. I sit up.
Getting dressed, I think of my to-do list, grateful for the distraction. I pull out my orange notebook–my list from yesterday is checked off–and flip to an old page from before the move.
printer cord ✓
I remembered everything. I turn the page.
in the moonlight
begins to wane