Poetry By
Lynn Otto
Published on: 3/20/2013
French Kiss
Go ahead I've left you a tiny tuna salad snack between my teeth I know you'd prefer chocolate but a girl can't live on it
Published on: 3/19/2013
In This Green Green So Blue
In this green green, a hundred shades, I feel blue, turning pancakes on the Coleman stove, fewer than last year, fewer than the mother in site 22, visible through vine maples and huckleberries, spring-green screen too thin. Yesterday, like the flycatcher overhead she fussed poor directions to her husband as he backed a trailer between the ferns and firs, without consequence. Since then, her children and their young spouses, as if ordered from a catalog, have arrived. Beautiful, they laugh together under the pale green streamers of moss and smile at their mother, who sings and sets the rough wood table for ten.
Published on: 3/15/2013
Cycle
At dusk they wheel out their bikes in shirt-sleeves, sandals, heads bare we ask them to return, reconsider smell the rain on the wind open a closet of warmth and safety collected, provided reflective jackets, helmets, fluorescent vests appropriate footwear but they pedal away deaf with legs too long certain and uncertain they must go forward—we can't span the increasing distance, they won't look back until they're here.
Published on: 3/14/2013
Leaves, Late October
Some are the burnt orange of Susan Pound's hair, which is why I envied her in seventh grade, how she shone, how boys gathered around her like bees to a bed of chrysanthemums. Some are the honey color of our wooden desks, where the passionate declared their love with penknives. Some are the ruby I wanted my lips to be. Some the scarlet of embarrassment. Some are the dark yellow of pencils, or the school bus that carried me down roads too long to run back, past the same houses, same yards, same Jack-o-lanterns, under the same Vs of geese flying ahead of winter. These colors fall with almost no sound— a sigh, the turn of a page.
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