poem (a)


I iron my mother’s dress.

it’s hot,

for October.

I think about mortality.

I imagine ironing my mother’s blue dress

even long

after she’s gone

 poem (b)


I will not follow you into the reeds.

I may know myself

but I am not yet at the bridge.

I am still learning.




I will let the river water stay in my hair

and watch it turn to gold,

Quiet.

Waiting.

Silent.

Longing.




Hairpins in the riverbed.

My dreams are colluding against me.

I don’t know what to do.




I am hidden, buried in time.

Wrapped up in words.

I must give up