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Geodes The poems in this collection examine what happens when we are cracked open by love, loss and the passage of time Selected Poems: “Thirst,” West Trade Review, Spring 2021, Volume 21 “What She Doesn’t Know,” The Wax Paper, Volume Three, Issue 11 “Q&A,” Evening Street Review, Mid-Spring 2021, No. 29 “They May Be Poppies,” El Portal Literary Journal, Fall 2020, Volume 78, No. 2 “Coda,” Drunk Monkeys, December 2017, Vol. 2, No. 12 “1305 Elm Street,” Gemini Magazine, March 2016 "Stone", Persimmon Tree, Summer 2017 |
This poem was the genesis for the poems in Geodes. Stone There’s complexity in stone. Bird, fern, bark, bone compress and carbonize to shadow. So much of what we love stiffens. My mother hunted geodes in Iowa fields, delighted in the prize inside—amethysts deep as purple plums, agate burnished nectarine. My husband free-climbed cliffs, clung to stone the way to skin a lover cleaves. I wear my mother’s agate ring, sit beside my husband’s grave, pink granite warm to touch, gold flecked face of Annapurna at sunset. In summer I eat peaches, claret cherries, bruised plums, strip sweetness from stone hearts, seed and cyanide locked inside. |