Recent Poems
As I Write
Painted nails grown long,
clicking like tiny echoes
of heels on a hard floor,
the index near pen-point
pointing to the page
like a girl who sees
what she wants, and will get it
in a tap of her calligraphy,
pink today,
her big sister on the other side
(the one who flips you off
if you are rude . . . )
the thumb, big momma,
all sheen of good health,
ring and little finger curled,
tickling in the palm.
We are going out tonight,
my painted nails and I.
We are headed out to meet
the other girls, to have some fun
at our own expense--
and lord knows, we are not cheap.
You may shake my hand at the bar.
You may place a drink
in my hand, and glance at my nails.
You may even hold them
--lightly please--
and take them to the dance floor.
I will come trailing behind my nails
like smoke trailing behind
sparklers on the Fourth of July.
We will burn out soon.
But until then, we will do our best
to be beautiful.
I Know Who
I know who I am.
I am not confused or pained.
Not anymore, anyway.
I will improve my life,
make it all up
as I go along.
I will deal with it.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was wrong
when he said,
“There are no second acts
in American lives.”
The other day
a van of soldiers drove by.
They were grinning
like jack-o-lanterns.
One gave me a wink.
Keep us safe, boys,
keep us all safe.
Email:
The Suz
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