by James Reidel

The cherry ones,
So painfully close to the weakest of medicines —
Luden’s, Smith Bros., Hall’s,
Hardly a saccharide shy of penny candy,
The same juju clicking against your teeth,
Round red dice,
The hole a glass marble throwing its voice,
That petal trapped inside.
Tumble them again.
They circle back to the same place,
The black water of your mouth.
With your tongue feel the ship’s name,
Always the same ship,
What goes back and forth,
Slow as a balance bubble,
Worked down to carnelian rings,
Slivers of red glass,
A red taste down to a hair.

by James Reidel

“ . . . leaves: They will cure my hunger”
          Ch’en Tzu –lung

The grass is dusted by frost and your bare feet grow number
     on the cold porch step.
For a whole minute more the Sunday Times stays this pill–blue
     fire log on the lawn.
An eye of half–and–half spins still in your cup and the first
     curdle
Floats to the number you bet wrong.
A light wind from the north rattles the flanking
     rhododendrons,
Their leaves curled as tight as cinnamon sticks,
Filed and polished to the yellow of long fingernails,
The ones grown just to pick off wax seals,
To open scrolls rolled as small around the next thing you did
     not know.

by Julie Rogers

The sun, a coin flipping
deep in a pocket of heat
that won’t give. Newscast:
governor’s gruff voice
rations water, Sierra snowpack
dryer than a century
green hills starved in torch yellow
burnt hell in the woods
empty lakes, asphalt melts
as we slowly wash the dishes
and tend to ourselves
— turn off the faucet —
trying to figure
when it’s important.
How clean and fresh
is life ? Do I look right ?
Can I see myself ?

by Julie Rogers

Hen House
          for Sangye

The mother is never done.
Her hands work
her heart, play dough
shapes. The mold cuts her
to size, she looks in the mirror
of her child’s eyes
and stares back.
She holds a bottle, a receiver
a broom, remembers
not knowing what to do
but she never stops
talking, her voice
an alarm clock
bull horn, lullaby
crackling long distance
muttering under her breath
quick prayers, hopes
like great clouds
on the horizon.
She tells herself
to let go
all birds fly.
She cleans and cleans
the nest, its emptiness
its clutter of songs.
She learns to sing
a new tune.
She’s off key
but carries on
late at night
when the other hens
are quiet.