Poetry at 50, in the US, as a woman [white], 2021, during a pandemic, in a glorious & painful spring, a flash poem, in four parts

1. Our flags always fly at half-mast now.Wide and unhealed wounds on high for the world to seeflap dripping loss and pus rains down into the public square. Below themwhite men, whips still in handand a few hard-yoked women, their heads downplodding alongfacing only...

Holy Ground

the old man up the hill tends the garden of the woman next door the woman behind us up the hill donates supplies to schools the woman who lives beside her takes her sick dog for very slow, sunny walks to sniff the life from dewy blades of grass while ailing pup still...