Wonderland

I stepped through the looking glass 

and found you 

waiting 

as if it were any other Saturday night. 

We were young 

no more than children

though there was little childishness 

in the way you kissed 

and teased 

and turned your head 

to look in the mirror.

Repose

In the armchair 

your head 

reclined 

comfortably 

languidly perhaps 

against the blue cushion 

you smile 

into the camera 

at peace 

with yourself 

and me 

and 

as the photograph reveals 

every other conceivable thing.

The Well-Read Possum

Wild Nights—Wild Nights! 

Were I with thee 

Wild Nights should be 

Our luxury!

     —Emily Dickinson 

Mrs. O'Possum looks at her litter of eight 

and shudders. 

This is going to take some getting used to, she thinks. 

The wind rustles her coat 

and her eyes close in memory of Mr. O'Possum, 

lately of the Woods,

who went foraging one cool evening and never returned. 

The wind picks up. 

His legacy is, oh, I hate to say it, hideous. 

But, the nights we had, she thinks. Wild Nights, Wild Nights!

I reckon these are faces only a mother could love.  She sighs, 

lying on her side affording access. 

Mind the teeth. 

Darlings.