Dec 1, 2019 | Aging, Daughter, Grief, Gus Stevens, Quatrains
She wakes from her nap with bedhead and pillow creases on her cheek then whispers, “When it’s gark out, Momma coming home?” in toddler speak. I know correcting her lisp can wait for some other afternoon so I brush her hair back and confirm,...
Aug 21, 2018 | Alexandrine, Daughter, Grief, Gus Stevens, Hexameter, Love
The little girl did not know what he was at first— the yellow thing that did not drop if you let go. Still he filled her with so much joy she’d either burst or grow wings so she could float with him through the air. He smiled from above while she laughed along...
Jul 18, 2018 | Alexandrine, Daughter, Dream, Gus Stevens
I wonder if the tearful child, not yet perceiving what it means to fall asleep, might believe she dies each night. Afraid to go alone, she chokes on her goodbyes, “Please don’t forget me! O please leave the door ajar!” But the swallowing Unknown will...
Jun 5, 2018 | Alexandrine, Daughter, Dream, Grief, Gus Stevens, Hexameter
In my dream, I held too many things in my hands and my fingers grappled and fumbled with the load afraid I’d drop one as I stumbled down the road for I’d balanced several things atop an icebox and my dream-drunk brain was slow, weighted down with sand...
May 26, 2018 | Alexandrine, Daughter, Grief, Gus Stevens, Hexameter, Mom
There are moments that poems are unworthy of. Like the photographs that can never truly show the setting sun nor capture the new fallen snow. Their radiance flattened; their laughter hollowed out. Our highest metaphors blaspheme both life and love; all our symbols...
Apr 9, 2018 | Daughter, Gus Stevens, Sonnet, Victorian Sonnet
Your milk-fattened fingers, sticky with joy, dirty the fold of my shirt, and you squirm, unaware that you might be dropped. Twice now you’ve made me panic thinking I’d lost my hold on your wriggling belly when your head suddenly flopped to one side. Little...
