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Samantha’s Daily Poem

July 26, 2011

The desk

The desk
a snarl of items
the shame
of dirty plates
each one
a story
a decision
together they are
a hulking body
of debris.

She is frozen
the objects
so daunting
like an orphanage
of abandoned faces.

The evening is quiet
husband away
baby asleep
if only the mess
wasn’t so distracting
how is it that lifeless
things make such
a racket?

A moment of bluster
she yanks a magazine
from the edge of the pile
five months old
one of those literary kind
you hope people will catch
you reading
she opens it to confirm
what she knows is true
it will not change her life
it must go.

She feels galvanized
radiant, even.

She will conquer
the mountain.

She is clearly
on a roll.

It is late
when she closes
the magazine
tea cup empty
but still warm.
It has been so long
since she read a magazine
cover to cover.
She looks at the thicket
that litters the desk
it looks bigger
and she waits for the clench
of regret
but all she feels
is the deep satisfaction
of her small

July 25, 2011

I want to spend you wisely

When you are not here
the idea of you sits
inside me
like a warm mug of tea
barricaded by my ribs

I want to spend you
want you
to last.

That we don’t live
heavy block of solid truth
I avert my mind
it can’t be
it is too

July 24, 2011

House for sale

House for sale
sold already
pile of old bookshelves
in the lane
the previous owner
sorting through the garage
the final nest
of belongings
(a spider’s paradise)
he looks as though
he is always dusty
a man not known
for his oral hygiene
my husband asks a question
that lands us in the house
for an enthustiastic tour
a tear-down, he says
not sadly
oddly proud
of the tired sag of the walls
stained ceiling
crusty stove
as though he doesn’t see
an old house
but the wife
he met 40 years ago
gone now
and all he can smell
in the decay
is a memory of

July 23, 2011

I am not the author

The words dropped
like cherries


pages of writing
my hands flying
like birds
stealing fruit from the trees

I am not the author
just one stop
on this story’s journey
to you.

July 22, 2011


My grief is dry
like a punch
my stomach burns
as though I have swallowed
some of his hate
how could one man
steal so much
my hands tremble
it is disorienting
to exist

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