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Kathleen Small Poem
A squirrel died on my front lawn.
I saw it fall,
As warm and round as an overripe peach.
I heard it land, like an olive dropped on hard wood,
splayed in a spot where passers-by
looked away on purpose.
Flies congregated,
brushed their legs against each other.
I canceled a dinner party because of the smell:
a low noisome hum
thick as sulphur on the head of a match just burnt,
sour as eggs.
My stomach curled low into my hips
when I searched the air outside my window,
perversely sniffing.
Swollen flies met in congress,
they rubbed their legs together,
trying to start a fire.
Copyright © Kathleen Small | Year Posted 2005
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Kathleen Small Poem
Creased, crisp,
they cupped my curves
slyly, stretching so nice
over Christmastime thighs.
The casual shrug of denim
held my hips, and that
beautiful break at the knee…
They had
a tenor zipper,
firm brass button,
hems tucked neat, sweet,
I could swear they smelled like his cologne.
But the zip stopped,
button popped,
the knee stretched thin and then it cracked,
had to be patched,
grass stains sprouted,
mud speckled the heels.
I scrubbed
and scrubbed.
The hems fell and
I don’t know when,
but this old blue skin just
stopped holding me.
Copyright © Kathleen Small | Year Posted 2005
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Kathleen Small Poem
Watching him sleep this afternoon
I recognized the miracle of his body.
I drank in its stillness,
The ease with which it found rest.
The quiet spectacle of breath pouring into his chest.
The tiny surprise of his lips,
open, unmoving and lovely.
Even the needle-fine hairs on his chin-
I knew they were growing, though I didn’t know how.
I never before realized how much space he occupied.
I was a cub curled inside his limbs,
my nose was a bud blooming from his skin,
my hand was a bird nesting in his chest.
In the clean January light
In the space of an afternoon hour I
sank into the loveliness, the easy scene:
his body and mine, and the space between.
Copyright © Kathleen Small | Year Posted 2005
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Kathleen Small Poem
My dad liked me best
I think
when I was five,
and I used to ask him how he got so tall,
how he knew so much
about how to throw a baseball,
and how to dance with me on his feet,
clinging joyfully to the backs of his knees.
I know I haven't grown since then
but I can look him in the eye now,
and our hands are identical.
He asks me how I got so tall
even though I know
I haven't grown since then.
Copyright © Kathleen Small | Year Posted 2005
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