the bridge

the goatheaded man turned his
yellow eyes
on me
horns slicked back,
a calcified comb-over


I could see his question growing
a trick to keep me here

he expected me to cower but
instead
i stepped forward and pulled a
quarter from his ear
then a bouquet from my sleeve

my hat bore a white rabbit which
hopped across the bridge

mesmerized, he could do nothing
but watch me leave

Balancing

I sit down to balance my checkbook but
I'm distracted by
sunshine and
birds and
children and
words floating in from
the radio.

waiting for a spark

the winter has been long and dark
a lifetime of seclusion
moving glacier slow
yet so much faster than my thoughts

near-shadows crawl across the wall
mere gradients of gray
since there is no light

i sit, frozen,
waiting for a spark

The Poet

The poet opens his mouth
and words bloom.
Images dance off
his tongue
and plant themselves
in my imagination,
take me to places that
failed to exist
before,
where grace and grit
live side by side
and ideas grow.

Radio Intimacy

after talking about
murder
corruption
disaster and
hemoroid research
the radio announcer
wets his lips
I can hear it
an intimate sound
sexual even
and I wonder what
he looks like.

The Shield

Young man

Oblivious

Marches through the parking lot

Eyes glued to his

smart phone

Held before his face as a

Shield

Protector of his disconnection

With the

real world

Crucifix of the Martyrs

Written by

Susan Reetz (April 1, 2013)

Photo by Irene MacFarland

the path to the top winds

around the hill,

a red spiral belt

lungs burn in

desert air

each step slower than the last

plain white cross looks down

guiding the pilgrims

and keeping watch

over the martyrs