Poetry
“The World Hasn’t Told Him He Can’t,” “Lord and Lady of he Manor,” and “No One Has Made Me Feel So Pretty”
The World Hasn’t Told Him He Can’t
Naked, just out of the bathtub,
Little Owen jumps on his new trampoline.
He flaps his arms furiously,
faster and faster.
“Mama, if I flap harder,
will I be able to fly?”
“No, you weren’t meant to.”
“What if you threw me?”
Lord and Lady of the Manor
Lough Rynn Castle was abandoned
years ago. Grass grows between cracks
the driveway. There is a groundskeeper
far in the distance. We wander alone.
We sit on a stone bench in front
of our castle, survey green lawns,
blue-grey water, purple mountains in the distance.
We stroll the walled garden,
walk along the lake, explore the stables,
climb up a small tower, ponder
the Druid’s Altar nestled in the woods.
We stroll back to the castle,
warm orange light
glows from the windows.
Dinner is waiting.
No One Has Ever Made Me Feel This Pretty
The funeral ends.
Hungry, drained, dressed
in my blue and green flowered dress.
I pull into a sandwich shop parking lot
to eat, rest, gather myself.
The woman in the car next to me
and I get out at the same time.
She gestures extravagantly with her arm,
“This way madame,”
as her daughter watches.
Unable to understand
how she means her words,
I don’t respond.
Walk towards the shop.
Her daughter’s words
float across the parking lot,
“Wasn’t that lady stunning?”