Face

Windows in an exposed brick wall leave her
suspicious. Was there another
floor in here once? Guessing about before
is her new purpose.

And she believes
in ghosts and sprites and even a mermaid
that might swim beneath floor boards
of an old fish-packing plant on the end

of a wharf. Those photos
mounted on its façade are real.
Eva, Mary, Bea, Frances—you are

real. And Almeda, your image
destroyed by storms crashing
into the harbor, you are beyond.

August 27, 2014

A fox follows you
till fear makes you
sprint to lameness. A swim
in the ocean

in your dress awakens
your hidden desire
to be out

of control again. Your hair
may smell of seaweed
and salt mixed
with grief

for your father—some called
Running Fox—now dead
two years. But the air

you breathe
in this moment
brushes the Atlantic Ocean
across all surfaces—your face.

Behind Monumental

A large white dollhouse
with green shutters
on a folk art pedestal
seduces her. Not

those shell-encrusted
parlor memorials, painting
of the Pilgrim Monument, replica
of a whaling vessel. She’s

a little embarrassed
to be still playing with dolls’
homes. Tiny artisans
and a beehive furnace

in a model
of a 19th-century glassmaking factory
could take her away
for a night or two.

Fear of heights gets no purchase
inside a life in miniature.