Spring 2009

Table of Contents - Vol. V, No. 1


Poetry     Interview     Translations     Fiction     Book Reviews

Andrea Potos


After The Evening Lecture On Insight Meditation

I walked under a sky glowing indigo,
past pine trees giving off the last
of their warm scent.
I came home to my husband,
twirled in my long skirt
beside the still-cluttered kitchen sink
while in the living room our daughter
was up way beyond bedtime.
I had no urge to scold anyone.
She scurried to her piano,
I heard her hands
release the Ode to Joy.

-- Previously published in Madison Magazine


A Poet in Winter

I'm still here,
hovering in a white
dominion--not that of Emily's

but blank pages,
and windows encrusted
with a cold too hard
to scrape clear.

Even Keats needed a thrush or two
to get the blood of ink to flow,
even he wanted some rose-tinged field of autumn
to set him to enduring flame.


In Yaya's Den

In previous incarnations, it was
my mother's teenage bedroom,
my young aunt's refuge after divorce.
In my time, we gathered after supper for Gunsmoke,
I Love Lucy
on the black and white console TV
that stood beside her ancient Singer
where my sister and I had carved
our names in the wood.

I¹d sit beside my grandmother, watching
her hands that refused to stay empty
since her 3-year-old son
died in that life before mine.
I took for granted her fingers' constant motion
of creation, the copper crochet hook dipping through
the yarn: another astonishing afghan born
on her blue knubby couch as she worked;
she sat at the end, leaning toward the strongest light.


© Andrea Potos



Poetry     Interview     Translations     Fiction     Book Reviews

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