Poetry

 

 

Pamela L. Laskin

Forests

All semester
a forest tried to grow
in my brain:
dead ancestors
returning
for their supper of darkness;

only this time
I had nothing
to offer
not even room
beneath the cover
of winter,

since I am done
mourning the past,

and I'd like to dream
I left the forest
long ago
because I prefer light and liquid,
to unfasten my bones
at the beach
set sail
noticeably forward.

 

Mortgage

It's my name,
it was my Mother's,
my Father's,
my name
my house
lit by candles
dispelling dampness,
darkness,
desperation
because I won't leave it
even if my stomach cries
for three days running,
I won't feed it, so I can shelter all my dimes and dollars
as a shrine
to the name
I signed.

 

 

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