for Giula Dupree

Her Floor

A finishing nail

has raised its head

up out of the wood,

and gone all

human and sad.

A tiny blank expression,

catching the sun,

like a matchhead

scraping against my giant shoe.

As if to burn it down.

As if the old woman

had known what to do.

Salvage Yard

This is the way she slumped and died,

on the vinyl seat, on Litchfield Road,

hit by a truck on the driver's side,

at forty-five through the red light.

This is the son who wasn't there,

was not and never had been there,

and did not kill her, is that clear?

Nor turn the wheel to save her.


                          Southern Poetry Review 45:1 (2007)