Cur-sed is the barren Cur-sed is the fertile There is no lasting fruit in the Republic of Gilead
Haiku #14 Hiding in the tall grass: Your red Obi sash and my tortoiseshell comb.
Haiku #13 Green looping vine, Japanese Honeysuckle climbs toward hot sky.
Kimono tossed over shoji screen. “Lover, draw down the rattan shade.”
Haiku #11 Pregnant ingénue. Leading man twice her age disposed of the body.
After the Egg Hunt I gave him the lavender ribbon from my hat in exchange for a kiss, hard boiled egg dyed gold. “Made it special for ya,” he said, pointing to the gilded treat laid on bed of green shredded paper lining the bottom of a white hand basket. Sitting on the porch, legs crossed windows open so mama can hear the call of birds and bees: his mouth earnest, to my ear dripping honey, thick shadow of midday… Keep Reading
Pusheen the Cat strolling by blooming daffodils; Spring in the city.
The red river settles into mountain’s hollow space; Lovers embrace.
Black owl shrieking on the ledge. A tree limb breaks under the weight of snow.