These five poems are from a series called Fractured Alphabet of the Unknown

Funambulist

As a girl who longed to walk a tight rope,

I tied an old clothesline from one branch

to another between limbs of the sumac tree,

which turned out to be as unsuccessful

as the silkworms I fed with mulberry leaves

eager to make their cocoons into silk scarves.

Now the rope is all. To walk it as wife, mother,

and lover takes all the balance I can muster.

Grimoire

It’s a volume of tales and spells, potions, rituals

any witch might follow—a craft of crafts, but

listen, her Book of Shadows is unique. She knows

how to tango with a tiger, how to catch burglars

with carpets of quicksand. She can quick-chill

your husband’s lover to a pillar of blue ice. And. . .

in her cauldron, she makes sweet rose drops sure

to impregnate or plum brandy meant to kill.

Omphaloscopy

Cumulous day by the sand-bottom lake.

Time. A cross-country photo sent, and he says

it’s erotic. Is it still? Don’t ask what that means

or how long. He wants to know how to cook

green beans. Navel-gaze paused, I text, Skillet,

chicken broth. Then pantlegs rolled, I use a knife

to slice my ripened peach and yearn to touch

a cloud yet wonder if this would bring rain.

Ufology

Chronic doubters, we can’t get our heads around

the idea of shiny white saucers floating down

in the Nevada desert and disgorging menacing

white creatures with elephant eyes. Still though,

mesmerized, by the Perseides, we love to lie on

our backs, see white streaks against the night sky,

but the only space-aliens we know are the Starbucks

techies, big-eyed 24/7 at their Apples and Macs.

Xanthic

A duck, a lemon, a buttercup, a cab. All yellows

meant to uplift, create moments of bliss like

morning sun or the yellow pad on which I’m

scribbling, as a mythical canary trills for me

and for the mustard-colored tape that metes out

my days. Maybe before Atropos decides to cut

that cord, I will step on xanthic banana peelings

and ski from this world into the next. . . .