Summers in Bay Shore
in the onceuponatime world she occupies
her daddy doesn’t let them play on the grass
“Greenest in the neighborhood,” he crows from
behind his beer
flipping burgers by the pool and enjoying the sunset
mom stays inside by the stove to cook the sides
and she’s tired of the mudpie game
she’s collected all the inchworms
it’s getting too late to ride her bike down the street
she curls up with a book on the concrete
ignoring the pebbledigs in her elbows
a favorite escape
dragons and magic and runnings-away
until his shadow falls across her and here it comes
a disgusted snort
“Quit being so lazy! Nose always in a book!”
and she is sent scurrying to the kitchen
to sit with her mom in the heat
and watch the beans go limp
Winter at Robert Moses
I drove out to the beach today
six weeks back and I still hadn’t been
I remembered a chair, a snack, iced tea –
everything but gloves for the winter wind
I sat peaceful, waiting to be inspired
admiring the light show on the water
thinking that the waves here are not so indolent as those I’ve seen
in Jamaica and elsewhere,
as though living in New York has shaped them
waves with a purpose, with work to be done
the smell of the ocean doesn’t ride as high in winter
as though it takes warmth
to guide the salt to your nose properly
and there’s not as much beach as there was years ago
time has taken its toll, but the stroll
along the strand is easier
twenty years erased by wavewash
and a few looks of “nice of you to show up”
as gulls are wont to share
I have to look back at the water and agree
yes, it has been far too long
but the waves dance at my return
and for a moment I am home
Winterkiss
there was frost on the window this eve
ghostfingers on the glass
a tentative kiss from winter
promising to steal the warmth from old bones
rob autumn of its sultry tones
and remind our children
why we fear the blackclad night
cling to roofed places, revere fire as a god
moonlight, bonelight over the barn
even the cows are quiet
dreaming moodreams under moonbeams
dusting over their forms
silent, invisible
the season steals in
and the evening breath cools lust
the tickle-chill of an early wind
dripping down the eaves
and under the covers
sweeping desire away
Mountaintop Removal
I saw a mountaintop removed, once
it looked like God himself had come down
and smote that mountain
for some heinous act,
though what a mountain could do to anger God
I couldn’t say
and it looked like hell –
not just bad, but actual Hell
and Catholics like me don’t say that lightly
if that mountain had been alive, it sits now beheaded
the gaping maw of its throat
an accusation, plain as day
I left Kentucky behind me
and found myself haunted by dreams
that while I was gone, all the tops were taken
and delivered to my doorstep in the city, one by one
an earthblood offering
threatening to crush
while back home,
the browless mountains mourned
reduced from majesty to mountainfeet
© Copyright Colleen Harris. All Rights Reserved.
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