Feature Poet:
Adam Mars Bronitsky

COFFEE CUPS

Those two cups
I see
on your kitchen table
empty of all
but one inch
of inky cold liquid
are the remnants
of a conversation
you had
with someone else


CROCUS TIME

From cracked gelid fudge
I poke my yellow shell
three inches in the air
Am I alone? Purple brothers,
white sister form our tiny troupe.
Another March engagement.

Our gig stops when the others come on.
Oh,yes, they say, they're here, again
good omen, but the best is yet to be.
We are the couriers, sentinels, clowns,
announcers. Other floweres, primp
and preen in backstage dressing rooms
softer yellows, deeper purples, subtler whites
win more applause than our routines.

We leave the platform quietly
unpicked, untoasted, undefiled
We have secret plans and reveries
beneath the earth.


ON AN AMTRAK TRAIN TO BOSTON

Seven-thirty Sunday morning
February fog lifted for a moment
Revealing yellowed weeds of the Bronx
As I head up to Boston
To see my sister unconscious
at Brigham and Women's Hospital
As I listen to Van Morrison with headphones
Singing "Goodbye Baby, Baby Goodbye"
and it's completely foggy again
Further up as the train wanders through Connecticut
Along the Long Island Sound shore
I can't tell sand from snow
And as I hear Janis Joplin wail
Silver Threads and Golden Needles
I know that nothing can mend this heart of mine
My tears darken my navy flannel shirt
Then no visibility
I can't distinguish clouds from water.


SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY

Every night I bed down with my mortal enemy:
clutter
a long mound of books and magazines
sweaters and towels
flannel undershirts, socks
magazine subscription fallouts
appointment books

I cannot nohow rid myself of this stuff.
It's a presence in my life:
my cat , my dog, my pet clutter
a bedmate
palpable, almost cuddly
but not tender or juicy