Lenore Weiss

Mable Pyne, the name sounds like a character from a book written by Carson McCullers, southerly with a lonely heart, she doesn’t give too much away and stands upright like

Deer bite off the heads of my coreopsis, yellow sunbursts of blossoms I was hoping to see every morning outside my window, but now only sad stumps are left leaning

Dry grass falls down the hill like an old man’s whiskers sticking out every which-way; I’m driving on the road where fog roosts in branches until it warms up later

Ever since Christmas, malls have knocked off 20 percent from their original reduced prices. I hear Dean Martin crooning, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” his voice still trapped in rotation

I met you two hours after you were born Wrapped in a tortilla’s worth of blankets, An infant with bloodlines from three continents Who rests in my arms registering First

I distill these moments from paged memory and expand my soul before the air runs out.