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.
Shaking Hands
grasp, clasp,
tentative press,
the faintest whisper
of cuff to skin.
Hello, the mouth says,
I’m so glad
to meet you.
But the eyes say
Not here, not now.
Early October
The maple, still lush
with green leaves,
sways toward the house,
sways away. That quickly,
quicker, death and life
trade places.
Neighbors bear
their offerings
of casseroles and cakes,
under a sky so blue,
it wounds.
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