Kathleen Madrid is a poet who lives with her husband, three appropriately drooly newfies and a sawed off mutt named Whiskey outside Denver, Colorado.
Scorpion Brooch, Stuffed Chickadee, Rhinestone Belt
The memory box is better burnt, the books as well.
The dust and dirt, what could it hurt to let it all just
ash away? The clothes will never fit again and never
mattered anyway. The lotion, toner, exfoliant—mascara,
high heels, three kinds of scent. My grandmother’s things
would be hardest: rhinestone belt, scorpion brooch and way I
felt. Chester, that absurd stuffed bird—I would want him, feel
his loss as sign of every hole and haunt. No blue jay —yolk yellow,
matted, orange feet smudged to gray
Oh fire. Burn it all and let me go away.
All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
– Dame Julian
The orchestra
The orchestra warms
You’re sitting in phlox,
On freshwater fish scales, beneath clusters of cayenne
The orchestra plays under
You’re sitting in phlox
Sap lacquer ambers peonies.
The orchestra plays under canopies of blackberries
Time reconciles flamingos, kudzu leafing from a cradle
The orchestra plays in canopies
The orchestra plays out cradles
This is lost
each is lost
one manner of thing is never lost
phlox flowers in the choir loft
chapel, with angels
stained glass eyes chord organ heart double lung bells
gills held a part sprung spring cuckoo bird ticking the time
carnation buttonholed weasel in shine feverfew nectarine
petunia wine forget-me-knot all will rot red clover rime