A Poem by Melissa Carl
A freak, crocus-warm winter afternoon
pours its sun into scent on sheets.
On the lines, wooden pins creak
and clasp my towels.
An upsurge of air
my clothes awaken,
stir with the intimate knowledge
they have of my hair,
my skin. The snap of material
the sound of freedom.
I like that my shirts are sails,
that something of me
is on the wind.
A poem by Melissa Carl
and the air is moored and oddly warm.
What do you want to remember?
Rush-hour twilights east horizon
Where the full and rising moon
has managed to be pink?
Or the other side of the sky
with clouds dragging
huge caves of storm?
Really, you want a heart
whole enough to hold them both—
both, and the shifting space
of the space between.
A Poem by Melissa Carl
The night is dry
and black,
the night with its ear
to earth
and shivering.
A store-bought costume
droops over
my toddlers eyes
as we walk to each
affluent porch,
mums and pumpkins
by every door.
At one corner I look,
and look once more.
The mummy palms
of the scattered leaves
and the one star falling
among many
are so much smaller
than the sticky hand
curled in mine
Our Day's Encounter 