by Martha Christina
We’re in water
up to our armpits
and I’m afraid
of going under.
But when you
put your hand
on the small
of my back,
what can I do
but float?
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Martha Christina
by Martha Christina
From a distance I mistake
the albino caterpillar
for a small gull feather,
common in a coastal garden.
Up close, what does it
make of my finger,
twice its girth, as I lift it
from the slick surface
of a stone, and place it
in the assumed safety
of the ferns?
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by Martha Christina
Free of cage
and owner,
returned
to the multitude,
a parrot might
articulate
what the others
had only thought:
how good to be
one of a flock.
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by Martha Christina
Memorial Day
Two starlings
glide from my roof
to my neighbors’.
The sudden breeze
of their wings
just enough
to stir the flag.
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