Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.

                                      — C.D. Wright



Grateful acknowledgement is made to Oana Cambrea for the use of her digital art, Autumn (2007).



Women in Love



It is the pillbox hat I remember most, a Paris
green with matching veil. In our house, au pairs

came and went. She lasted two years, smiled
rarely. Under her instructions, my mother slimed

fish, towel-dried glass jars. We ate raw
tuna, babbled in Japanese. Father called it war,

snatched saké from her hands. He was never sober.
We got used to padding around in terry robes.

Her power suit spiked him, every room was mined
territory. In time, my mother burned her denim

pants, the linen dresses, tinged her hair ocher,
took to strolling in the country. My summer chore

was to tend the lawn. I saw them under the peach
tree once: a cutting moment. There was nothing cheap

about her lipstick as it stained my mother's pale
neck. From afar, I heard the church bells peal.



                         previously published in The Desecration of Doves (iUniverse, 2005)