Alexandru Paraschiv CC
Somehow you spin a thread of hope, pale gold,
out of your history, your sad blood, summoning light,
send up a flare of laughter beneath a hard load:
so many chores, grumbling descendants. . . You drudge in light
and cup that flame even as your mood spins down
to black. Depression stalks in its studded collar. Light
a cigarette, call a friend, take your Paxil—hold on
in this season of cold mud until you sit in light
April air and smell green in the world. Brush
your long blond hair; its flood of yellow light,
its beauty, has been with you all your life,
consolation prize for the lack of light
and hope in too many days. Cherish your light.
Dreaming of Sue
Through night tunnels, you sneak up on me now,
high-laughing, fierce woman--your scarlet smile,
your spit in the face of arthritis.
Sometimes you’re in that shawl I knitted, lifting
your Christmas bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream,
sometimes leaning against Grandpa in your kelly green suit.
Happiness—I will take it, your eyes seems to say.
I’m getting old myself now. Many nights,
feeling sheer aches, I mold your heating pad
around my limbs as if wrapping your sharp warmth
around a swelling sadness. I hear your laugh,
peppery, catching, a little cruel,
as I roll into another day.
Naomi Thiers grew up in California and Pittsburgh, but her chosen home is Washington, DC area. In 1992, her first book of poetry Only The Raw Hands Are Heaven won the Washington Writers Publishing House competition. Her other books are In Yolo County and She Was a Cathedral (Finishing Line Press) and Made of Air (Kelsay). Her poetry, fiction, book reviews, and interviews have been published in Virginia Quarterly Review , Poet Lore, Colorado Review, Pacific Review, Potomac Review, Grist, Sojourners, and many other magazines. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and featured in anthologies, and she is a former editor of Phoebe magazine. She works as an editor with Educational Leadership.
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