at the door, for I’m your color, your car, I wanted to say last spring when the unfixable radio went mint-wild and we who work this rough world worried over what little will eat lime; how to catalog the lifetime of the Swedish forest water plant when her full bright chartreuse leaves are caught in last night’s ice. You, with your million morning dreams of green storms, and me, my hands banging tax calculations: we noticed her cross mechanic love and how generations of ivy in that beautiful light, that envelope of shades that looks like new night light, would drive me back to that place of furnace and rains, where everything was dust, in wind. 

Molly Gaudry

Used to be 
I could watch a ballgame 
Without being blinkered
by come ons about hard-ons 
in a miracle pill  
without being asked to imagine 
the boners of middle aged men
whose bored, sneering wives 
used to be their own business
and not my 8-yr old’s:
“What’s wrong with him, Mommy?” 

Stacy Esch