Coming of Age in Idaho

The white moon throbbed
over jackrabbits, sagebrush and me
in that craggy desert split
to the center of the earth.

Prehistoric-
the only habitation for hundreds of miles
was an airbase
and a rusting trailer park
where I first bled
staring at the concrete floor
in the communal bathroom.

Mother was gone
as she often was and my Father
was busy with another set
of blueprints
spread out under a gooseneck lamp
in our tiny kitchen.

So this is how it starts, I thought,
looking into the moon's broad face
for reassurance.
The land might have been green,
might have had trees;

I longed to put my arms around
some growing thing
or cup my hand
for a little lake of rain
but nothing came.

The next day I scuffled dirt clods
and rolled tumbleweeds
as far as I could see.
Oh, Momma, I called
is this what barren means?

Straw Heart

The coiled knot of my straw heart
is flammable.
I can smell gasoline
in the can you swing.

I'm not afraid to burn
but I am afraid to burn slowly.
Here are some sticks from the sticks and stones
you heaped on me -
success is in the kindling.

I can hear the hissing snake of your fuse.
You are faraway with the smoking match;
the flat charcoal is a cruel scent -
what's one more heart to scorch?

I disgust you with my need -
Some things are hard to burn

Wives

You collect wives like charms,
dispensable trinkets.

What happened to wives one and two?
Their portraits dress your Mother's wall:

beauty queens, both - I understand
one had a temper;
the other loved her siblings
more than you.

Oh the boxes love takes.
Money down
and dancing late;
moving in
or out.

Watching Billy's House Burn Down

We looked for fires to watch.
Summer was good that year
though Billy cried
when we watched his house burn down.

He shivered, couldn't find his Mom.
His house was yellow then black
then gone.

For months we walked past
the charcoal stairs and sooty beams
hoping to see him,
hook elbows,
and fall into the carbon night
looking for fires.

Rental Property

I am saving two inch screws
to secure the porcelain towel rack
to the kitchen wall above the sink.
To put it up would claim this place as mine,
and it is not mine.

I am saving deadbolts to screw
plant hangers in the ceiling
above the plate glass window
to welcome grape ivy or some other vine
but none of this is mine.

Even you I cannot secure.
I watch as you wander these rooms
in your bathrobe and flip-flops,
a grown man looking for a wife,
but you are not mine.

About the Author

I live in Washington state, USA, and have been writing since my early teens. I live with my husband of many years and four cats and when not composing poems enjoy watercolor painting. I've been published online in many e-zines including Avatar, Octavo, Melic Review, La Petite Zine, Savoy, Eclectica, and Horsethief's Journal.

My webpage has many poems as well as paintings I've done: http://members.tripod.com/~whiteheart2/index.html

Email Teresa

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