Rock, Paper, Scissors

This entry is part 41 of 73 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2011-12



On the other side
of the world, a nun
ponders rain that is
which makes me remember
the first of many games
that women in the family
would play with every new
baby: close, open, close,
— by turns
the fist is soft as new
paper, then layered flint
cropped from a lunar crater.


When I pried
the orange’s clear
segment from its rind
and mesh of membrane,
a spray of volatile oil
arced into the air.


Loggers clear trees along
the powerline to make way
for a new parking structure
at the mall. You
could not see the shore
from here— fish in nets
a kind of dappled wealth,
even a little change dropped
back into the water.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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