Poems:

OK, I freely admit that I am far from the world's best poet. In fact, I only started writing poetry again last fall, and it was somewhat frightening at first. Everything poetic that I had written up to that point had been of the "my broken heart" variety that needed to stay far far away from the public, in my journal. That said, here are three little things:

For NP
You don't know it but I worry so
That you will be the cause of
A ferocious hatred of that great atlantic ocean
That's stuck between us

And that walking home after the Y
The sight of folded tiger-lily buds
won't be beauty enough anymore

For MM
His voice is Persian on the phone with his mother,
a two-toned windbreaker and lush black hair.
"The stars are out," I say and take his hand.
"It will never happen if it can’t happen now."

Days earlier he offered me a cut orange
carved special-- a thin ribbon of membrane
linking the segments; glossy, bright, jewels.
How he held it in his palm almost made me cry.

I trap him at a party, my mouth thick with drink.
He hides a cell phone, speaking in tongues.
"You bastard" I say and don’t quite mean it.
"Why couldn’t we leave bloody well enough alone."

Annunciation
The virgin Mary appears to Marla
one morning before work.
She asks Marla for a glass of water
and cries tears that look like milk.

With the water, the blessed mother
takes pill capsules, green and pink.
"I need the Paxil," she tells Marla,
"but without the Pepto I’d be sick."

The virgin wipes her eyes and stops crying
fixing her makeup with great care
She holds her hands out in front of her
and picks a Calla lily from the air

"Child" she says to Marla,
"I think it’s time to quit.
The six signs told me long ago,
and I’m afraid you’re it."

"Quit what?" Says Marla softly,
"And what are you doing here?"
"I think you know that," replies Mary
Who takes a step and disappears.

When Marla wakes, the day is bright
Madonna plays on the CBC
"Get into the groove," she says to Marla,
who finds a Calla lily by her feet.