The ice Floes

I’ve left my mates, dying, on tundra tracks

Opening the small tins of potted meat

Discover just sawdust inside to eat

I sledged, exhausted, past the icy cracks

Whether cold, scurvy, or evil attacks

Dragging myself, my tent, my stove for heat

Despair. I stagger on, with frozen feet

I dream my mates are dead, piled in stacks

Arctic summer flowers, it lasts a night

I press on, snow blind, wind howls, black toes

I press on, voices sing, strip off my clothes

Arctic winter sullen, it ends a life

Perhaps, they’ll find my smiling corpse one day

Perhaps, they’ll leave a marker where I lay.

Winner 1st Place 2019 FSPA Petrarchan Sonnet

Wool Jacket

You never said a word.

“What did you do in the war, Daddy?”

“I was in Italy.

Four years in Italy.

I came back, mostly in one piece.”

I button the heavy wool

suitable for mountains and trenches

but not the Florida sunshine.

Go outside to smoke a cigarette

blowing smoke rings

like you taught me.

The match glow highlights my bones

so I look like you.

Silent, too thin, lost in that hell

which left you with a limp

a long skinny scar

from midspine to thigh

and a Purple Heart

you kept in your sock drawer.

“Nothing to say, baby girl.

I went. I came home.”

I mash out the cigarette in a seashell

and bury my face in the musty wool of

Daddy’s war.

Winner 1st Place 2017 FSPA Lt George Birkner Memorial Award

The Quest for the Holy Grail

Hot

Juicy

Toothsome

Sliding down my throat

Gooey stringiness

Accented with texture

Spongy exterior with a

Solid interior

Just a tad salty

Now that’s what I call

A perfect mushroom-swiss burger

Checkers

99 cents

Last Call

I hear you calling,

you and my friends

from the old neighborhood.

They want to play stickball

and shootzies

and war, pretending

the dirt mounds in the junkyard

are foxholes.

But we didn’t know from foxholes,

not then, not yet,

not for a few more years, anyway.

You’re all calling me to come,

come out and play,

tell us about Big City Adventures

and small city escapades.

I hear one soft voice

inside all the other voices

sometimes reading with me

and I correct your pronunciation

of the harder words.

I hear one voice, your voice,

calling me,

come, come out,

it’s time to come out and play,

your voice,

my baby brother,

my best friend.

I heard your first cry

and your last whimper

and your call.

Borrowed Pajamas

You borrowed a too big tee-shirt

when you spent the night

so big it grazed your knees.

It shrank in the wash.

Now, it barely brushes your hip bones.

It shrank

over the long years

of borrowing and

not borrowing.

The neckline which hung off your shoulders

settles nicely on your collarbone.

Your face fades from the mirror

while I brush my teeth.

I fold the shirt

place it on the closet shelf

shut the door.



3rd Place, Gwendolyn Brooks Award 2020

Library Nooks

Memories of here with my mother

Did we sit and read, look at pictures?

Each book another color, different binding,

faded, new, embossed.

Love for words sacred source

a place with books always

a haven

a heaven.

When pain and hunger clawed

she lost herself in words

crawled into the pages

under the flyleaf.

Will I tell her story?

Will I tell my own?

Each book another color

Walls of books surround us

I transcribe the echoes of her whispers

write our stories

and am

Happy

Prospect Park 1973

It was a long ride on a warm spring afternoon

when no one was home anyway to miss me

The meadow grass called, Reading Time!

I was fourteen and alone, gloriously alone.

I lay there on my belly

deep into Jane Eyre

for the fifth time.

A young man stopped running

sat down next to me his hands on

mythighswaistass talking

asking questions as I tried to read.

Confused, resentful, scared,

he threw a leg over mine.

I was fourteen and alone.

Two men on their bicycles paused

called to me, “Hey, miss, is that guy

bothering you?” I was silent, motionless.

“Punk, get your hands off her. Now, punk.”

They stood there, waiting as he

rolled away, walked away, muttering

about strangers bothering people.

The men came closer as I put my book

in my knapsack, picked up my bicycle.

“Miss, it’s not safe here, not for a young girl.

You’re what? Fourteen? And you’re alone.

“We have daughters. Please be careful.”

They rode with me to the avenue.

I went home, still alone.

Baby Shoes

The clearance rack way  back

near the restrooms

is filled with mismatched shoes.

The worn display right foot  

the pristine boxed left shoe

shoes who’ve lost their mates

under some coatrack

and the odd sizes

rejected by parents

‘because kids grow so damned fast these days,

it ain’t worth buying shoes that fit.

Just size em up.’

I browse the rack of toddler shoes

white cowboy boots

faux patent leather mary janes

complete with taps

light up sneakers.

I slide my hands into the sneakers,

dance them along the shelf, the side bar,

bins of public domain DVDs

wishing I could make

starlight

with my feet.

And there it is! A pair of

purple fringed sandals

double buckles

and a pale yellow flower

over the big toe

like a gaudy cocktail ring.

They are size 11.

I imagine them on my baby’s feet,

her painted toenails wearing

That Big Yellow Flower.

They even have glitter.

Every little girl wants

purple glitter

double buckle

yellow flower

fringed sandals.

Every mommy wants to see her baby in

purple glitter

double buckle

yellow flower

fringed sandals

with tiny green and pink toenails glowing.

I take them out to Long Island

and leave them on aisle seven

instead of a pebble.