Jackie! Here’s to you, girl!
To your Voice
Once so stifled, so
Afraid of its own sound
Never saying, “No, no. […]

In kitchens the women
  read Revelations,
lean toward black electric fans.
A screen door slams. Out back,
  damp slips hang limp from […]

I hope you don’t mind that I’m holding your hand, dear sister-in-law,
I don’t want to hurt you. But these knuckles, I’d know them anywhere.
For such a delicate woman, your knuckles were always so wide, large, bony bumps.
The only large thing about you. I think this is the first time I’ve touched them. […]

I spoke to the mirror
twisted my spine
it curved red ribbon
around a carousel
it cracked beneath […]

When arthritis made her wince, she muttered
the town name as metonym for a cold, crowded prison floor—
a journey, world war, and privations away
from the woman I knew: wizened in a faded dress
at her dining table in L.A., her magnifying […]

I watch a raccoon wobble
like a drunk from a bar
in daylight, so maybe he’s rabid
or she is old and confused
too many seasons, litters, […]

I hear footsteps on the stair but they’re not you, they’re indefinably lighter and they’re not coming here, they’re going somewhere else. On the other hand they do sound like you just enough to make me raise my head and listen awhile and smile. Iris Litt’s third book of poems, Snowbird, was published by Finishing […]