Poetry eating an inkstone and coughing out ink [garbage poetry thread]

[Broodmother]

invasive species
i am rush and reed,
i am a flowerless thing,
not native to this place,
not wanted in my place --
do i have a place?
at least because
i haven't
i do not have to know it
(my place)
(his house)

if i were a heron
or a goose, all feathered,
this would be my place
only half the year
only half my place --
would it be enough?
if it wasn't
enough
at least i could touch it
(this place)
(my home?)

☆☆☆☆☆

crows and geese and pigeons
crows and geese and pigeons
look out on the city --
everybody else went
somewhere else instead

all the other people
went back to their houses
maybe fox is still here,
maybe that's raccoon

maybe that was deer there,
waiting for an ending,
maybe those are children,
playing in the rain

maybe there are people
living on this hill here
when the city's rubble
a thousand years from now

☆☆☆☆☆

 

[Broodmother]

window
looking in my window
there's a tree, a carob
i think -- but i'm not sure.

looking out my window
here i am, this body
whose eyes expect an oak.

once outside my window
was an oak in flower --
i wished it bore cherries.

will there be a window
with a tree outside it
that feels at last like home?

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

novembers
fingers like paws on the table,
black balls of hair in the drain
face full of snowbird snow-marvel,
coat flecked with droplets of rain --
eager, dog-eager in autumn
all of the city to see
she slept for a while on my shoulder
and now it is winter in me.

where is the sound of her laughter?
who is it drying her face?
the sun of that northwestern country
is not like the sun of this place --
she leaves her dear valley come autumn
and though we do suffer apart
how can there be thaws in my spirit
when i know where she's leaving her heart?