STOMA

The bag my mother carries coos
like a muffled baby owl. She hides it on
her side like a purse with gold and silver
coins left to spend. When she moves it gurgles

like a sooty faced bird, more raven than eagle.
She is self conscious, afraid it will fly away
without her. She fears her life will be set loose
like a snake in its hungry beak. What is left,

after the surgeons cut part of her away,
is this graceless winged woman, a white gown
instead of plumes, a thatch of broken weeds.

The doctor has no magic tricks up his sleeves. She sits
on her nest incubating regret, hums while morning
streaks the sky red. She waits on her little clay throne.

Laurie Byro

THE WINES WE CHOOSE

This fluid ecstasy,
shape-shifter subtle—

the trail of fingers,
a legacy left behind
in butterfly heartbeats,
gooseflesh raptures,
a sharp inhale of breath.

Leathery scents.
A days’ stubble—
sandpaper against the palm.
Calloused hand cupped full.

And me, a person of words,
drunk on the wines we choose,
wades silent into your depths,

lost
before the first syllable

is spoken.

Debbie Ouellet (Douellet)

WARMTH FOR WINTER

What can I say that hasn’t been said?.....

The darkness in me yearns for more fire.
I am not fool enough to singe my wings.
It is not because they are tattered I do not fly.
I choose not to use them,
Except for quick hops
Along territory with which I am familiar.

I fondly visualize palms of some distant if,
While gazing in the sun at pines I know.
Spring is not near, only semblances and hints,
If one can live through winter.
I used to relish cold,
Warmed by the heat within.

God gave me sparrows as charges,
Something to protect and nourish.
So I am not a hawk.
They gather to feed, assured
I am no threat.
Days lengthen, creeping slowly,
As my words get shorter.

There is no heaven past the convent wall.
The monastery lies freely cloistered.
Ivy climbs to choke the stones.
Moss and fungus cling yet add character.
There will be no fire today.
Was there ever need of flight?
Close your arms and pray for warmth.

Ann R. Cantu (Dreamliner)