The Executioner

The eyes are full of illusions, this we know,
nearsighted to dragons in the distance,
farsighted to angels at our elbow.
No, the eyes cannot be trusted, yet
I watched this man die for that is how
I feed my children. As you drive your bus,

Lisa

Il Signore del Giocondo has paid good money
for a portrait of his wife, so a portrait must be done.
The florins slip easily into the painter’s purse
but not so the paint on the canvas. The woman
is plain as the day is grey, her face weary from
the work of five children. Yet the painter is no fool.
He knows well what a husband seeks in a portrait is not

Joe’s Daughter

Joe wants me to marry his daughter
but he doesn’t know the kind of man I am.
She is sweet like the cherry wine Norwegians
sip at Christmas and I am the bitter grinds of
yesterday’s coffee. She tells me she loves me,
again and again, parading the terror of her

Inside a Church Not of Your Own Faith

A kind face welcomes you at the door
but the tortured souls on the stained glass
have their doubts. They have a hunch your
savior’s in your billfold, that you spend your
nights making cards, trash-talking the moon.
Still, forgiveness may be in the air,

Indian Summer

Seasons know their time
and yet like a desperate heart
already under water, this one
reaches back to grab hold
of the sinking line.
Still, losses must be tallied