yesterday they carved a space in my bones
dug out pieces of me that my own body
had already evicted
and now these fresh cut nerves
can feel you on the porch
knocking the mud from your boots
they buzz with the open g of your guitar
rattle with the wind
and hum with the dog’s snore
I recline in the electric chair
a post-op sentence exclusive of verbs
except knit, purl, sit, stay, and ponder
today the demeanor of a stuffed seat
the way its open arms call to me
the way its lap pats itself
come here, bubbala
implores me to rest awhile
secure in a gentle
today NPR celebrates Keith Richards
older than my mother and still jamming
while I can only rock a size 12
circular Susan Bates needle
pink plastic soundlessly
whipping moonlight mohair
and variegated bouclé
cutting lengths of yarn
into yards of lunatic fringe.
soon they will come for the chair
a bittersweet goodbye
so tomorrow I will lay down
this comfortable wool and practice
navigate the dogs and lighted tree
inch closer to the miles of steps
I’ll traverse to climb back
into the skin of the sunset chaser
and crow spier and the fierce doer
of all her doable things.
i think your next book should be your poetry.
I cry whenever I read your poems.
Psst…that means they are good. 😉
What they said.
what you do with words inspires me to be a better wordlover. thank you for that.
…well, that was like a warm embrace, a heartfelt hug… …thank you Leslie.
Wow. Well, I’d say you’re still rocking the poem pen, too.
feel better. there’s so much more for you to do.
Worth the wait.
It’s simply wonderful, Leslie, and definitely cooked to perfection!
I especially love the last four lines.
Thank heavens you survived Kathy and her kindred spirits to write again another day!
beautiful doable words.