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Pockets
when I tuck notes or snacks
into my daughter's pockets or empty them
to ready her clothes for the laundry
I find her stashes of acorns, ribbons,
feathers, shells - and play a game
like that of those mystery boxes
filled with ordinary things
made exotic in their being unseen,
where one must use unfamiliar arts
to know them in this way
I put together where she's been
*
today her cache is a handful of rocks
- no silver flecks or bands of quartz -
ordinary stones the kind that fill
a pathway in place of pavement
each is different but none
has a singular snowflake beauty
and I wonder why she chose them
*
in my pockets - a gum wrapper,
a penny gone to green, torn corners
of paper holding 'undusted stately days'
and 'latent storms' there's a note
I got in the mail, your scrappy scratch
on the backs of wine labels its letters
at times threaten to spill backwards
off the edge - its message unremarkable,
perhaps, if not for the way it makes me long
to put my hands in your pockets
- - to know
where you have been
in today's perfect moment
in the kind of clouds in which you see
ice cream cones and dragons
against that exact definition of blue,
petals of apple blossoms let go
and so do I
PJ Nights lives in coastal Maine with her family and various pound
pets. She teaches physics and astronomy. Her poetry and stories have
been published on the web at Erotica Readers & Writers Association,
Slow Trains, CleanSheets, Erosha, Adult Story Corner, Mind Caviar,
Amoret, the Emerald Collection, Ophelia's Muse, Hoot Island, the
Writer's Hood, Tryst, La Rosa Blanca and MiPoesias. Her works appear
in print in Penumbra and the 2002 Slow Trains Anthology.
PJ Nights
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