Sandra Marchetti
Amberwing
Perithemis tenera
Hover over me,
fat-beaded miracle.
Swell your breast
clustered between
red-tinged wings
in autumn nearly
done opening.
Scan the grass
one last time,
dry as a stone,
as a woman alone,
climbing the stairs,
landing nowhere.
~
Of Late
The bluest feathers lie in my husband’s
eyes—bespeckled gold and green—
furrowing back young yet astigmatic.
His lashes flick as I preen
the gray at his temples.
What wisdom he has to grow old
now—for his aging to be seen—
like my grandfather who combed snow
at thirty, skipped dinners
to hum the microchip into being.
My husband opens each
lid—these, carrots now steamed—
aware of each meal and its meaning.
~
Light Harvest
For the moment, things
growing and green,
a stay against
leaves that drop
ticking their last,
spent as clocks.
Old leaves leave
room in the Hickory,
branches soon brushed
in wintering dust.
~
Sandra Marchetti is the author of Confluence, a debut full-length collection of poetry from Sundress Publications. Eating Dog Press also published an illustrated edition of her essays and poetry, A Detail in the Landscape, and her first volume, The Canopy, won Midwest Writing Center's Mississippi Valley Chapbook Contest. Sandy won second prize in Prick of the Spindle's 2014 Poetry Open and her work appears in The Journal, Subtropics, The Hollins Critic, Sugar House Review, Mid-American Review, Thrush Poetry Journal, Green Mountains Review, South Dakota Review, Appalachian Heritage, Southwest Review, Phoebe, and elsewhere.
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