Poetry
My brother and I conjured a swamp of black water,filled it with saw-toothed specimens, upping the anteof our basement games. Any trek downstairs
Poems swing from the clothesline strungbetween earth and skyShe wears the soft shawl of sunriseher words like silkrunning through our fingersan offeringa melodic string of pearls
Afraid I will fall in love againwith his honey-colored wisps of hairand sturdy sinewed armsI wear a new red dressa fiery shield from regret
In dim lightGrandma sits at her tableshaving fat and fleshfrom the pig’s skullswick swick swickher knife slicesthrough bristled skinpast cartilage and brain
He sits at the counterof the café, keeps his hat on,a grey fedora, maybe thinkinghe won’t stay long.
My mother wasn’t a bakerin the ordinary sense. Nothree-tiered cakes with strawberriesmarching the frosty perimeters.No éclairs sliding from the ovenfor treats on Sundays. Sure,
In a room near Triceratops, not far from the elephant skulland the wave machine we come upon a glass casewith shelves of women’s shoes. My daughter and I peer in
Make it specific.Make it Oregon, Wisconsin. The time doesn’t matter.
I.It is 76 degrees with no chance of snow for decades.Some people don’t know what its like to live October through Marchwithout blue sky.
We trudge through last year’s corn stubble in a wayward, straggling line,drunken with the hour and the cold. It’s April, 4 AM, the air metallic in our noses.We stoop low, clamber awkwardly into plywood boxes slouching in slush,
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Wisconsin Academy Offices
1922 University Avenue
Madison, Wisconsin 53726
Phone: 608.733.6633
James Watrous Gallery
3rd Floor, Overture Center for the Arts
201 State Street
Madison, WI 53703
Phone: 608.733.6633 x25