Rearranging the Furniture
found poem, created from phrases heard from “How You Eat A Kiwifruit” & “Untitled Visions” shared by Robalu Gibson at Split this Rock’s October 7, 2015 writing workshop

Shield your child’s eyes. No one to pass
judgment anymore. Do not toss out
the strange bouquet. I can hear you,
you can stop shouting now. I lifted
an arm, to signify the range
of human voice. Somewhere in the week,
a detour from grief. Porch
watch, pale sunlight. Muddy
river swamp. Faint mist thundering
while flames sting. Crimson sun,
inhale. In we go, dangled
under the stars.

Rest

This time we carry collards from the garden,
raisins from the farmer’s market.
Didn’t buy lunch once this week.

Kept getting promoted until she didn’t.
The mothers all ask the same questions.

The bathroom is already tired.
My coat, scarf and haircut remind you.

As requested I came in
to Granny’s night time world
of red flannel pajamas and missing
front teeth.

Another apartment in Brooklyn
Another apartment in Brooklyn.
Another apartment in Brooklyn.

None of the furniture fits, yet
an evening flute still plays
scales in the distance.