Poetry
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
Late June fields greening
under a mottled sky.
An oriole slashes orange
against a shingled Cape Cod.
1
The smell is like nothing else.
Sickeningly sweet and kind of smoky,
like something burning and rotting at the same time,
it filled my father’s hospital room
and stuck to our clothes and nostrils
long after he died.
1
The smell is like nothing else.
Sickeningly sweet and kind of smoky,
like something burning and rotting at the same time,
it filled my father’s hospital room
and stuck to our clothes and nostrils
long after he died.
First open the windows and empty the garbage.
Next start the laundry, lights and darks.
Strip the bed, wash sheets, pillowcases,
mattress and quilt covers, mats and towels.
These things happen. There’s nothing
beautiful about it. She gave up her breasts
two years ago, but the cancer returned, pushing
through the sutures, the larval wasp consuming
Tucked beneath my mother’s shirts
and camisoles, a paper bag
of prayer cards, I find