Regret
The galvanized pail I lug, drips through the seams
having been left out, exposed to the weather.
It filled with rain which in time turned to ice
then melted, refroze.
Too much expanding, contracting.
I see the tear-stain leak on the gravel it leaves.
Under the cold crush of my boot, a forget-me-not
loses its chance of bloom.
The smell of metal sticks in my throat.
The handle creaks, corroded with regret
over not choosing the other pail I passed over
turned upside down, never getting its chance to be filled.
Threads
September slid its stitches onto October with careful devotion.
The indigo sky cast a stark contrast against the golden grasses.
We hiked the path through rows of prairie flowers
discovering an eagle sitting as if he was dropped then sewn
into this tapestry of loose threads
of plum, heather, rye, sage, knotted with occasional blues.
The lemon-drop moths seemed to pull
us forward so we would not miss the garter snakes basking
the young rabbit, further on, two red-crowned cranes regaling
a doe browsing, a cluster of swallows rising, falling as one
spun strand. Milkweed pods unravelled their downy wishes
as he slipped his hand into mine, seamless, all tied together.
loVe
I fix the V in the word loVe I had written in my journal.
It looked like loNe.
I pause, look out the window, see a skein of geese
in formation against the grey that presents itself today.
The sky melts together with the snow on the rooftops, ground;
a canvas of brokenness painted over with gesso.
They are hardwired, I guess, to connect.
There are stragglers who keep showing up, alone
or in a fistfulls of three or four, their necks outstretched
leaVing, leaNing, into the wind
trying to join the fold.
I sense their desperation to have the stroke of their wings in sync
to be in a line, mirrored by the other, to participate
navigate in the shift, pulling forward as another pulls back
to be in the rhythm of the give and take, the grasp and release
to be safe in the formation of that V of love where something
greater, more powerful carries them home.
Commitment
He rolled out the dough
while I cut out the trees
stars, bells, deer, ivy leaves
sometimes too thick, too thin.
I pinched together pieces that pulled away
broke off or got stuck
even balled up the ruin
started over again.
There was tenderness in the messiness
each of us dusted with flour
marking our commitment to continue
making the best of what was left.
We Were In It Together
Waiting in line at Walmart
where there is only one checker with her light on
I notice it is mostly the older who avoid the self-checkout.
The line is long and it affords us time
to peer into the carts in front and behind us.
There are some with just cat food, just booze
with medications of one sort or the other
healthy foods, mostly junk foods.
We learn about each other with our gazing.
Intertwined for a time, narratives unfold
about the cold, the busy season, about the need
for more human connection with checkers
and for a while we are forged together
in this human conundrum of desiring autonomy, efficiency
while still needing each other.
A man outside the line screams obscenities
about the ridiculousness of only one checker
and those of us in line let our eyes meet
as if to offer this poor soul a pass as there was recognition
of our own impatience, fragility that can warp into madness.
Then there is a problem and a call goes out for a price check
a manager comes over and I sigh perhaps too loud
and the woman behind me suggests I try the self-checkout.
She’s done it before, she assures.
So they all step aside, shuffle their carts so I can escape.
And I do figure it out.
As I’m walking towards the doors
with my cartful of accomplishment and pride
the lady who gave me the courage shouts halfway across the store
You did it!
We wave to each other as if we were best friends.
Angela Hoffman’s poetry collections include Resurrection Lily (Kelsay Books, 2022) and Olly Olly Oxen Free (forthcoming, Kelsay Books, 2023). She placed third in the WFOP Kay Saunders Memorial Emerging Poet in 2022.
Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Solitary Plover, Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets’ Museletter and Calendar, Agape Review, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Your Daily Poem, Writing In A Woman’s Voice, Moss Piglet, Amethyst Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, POETiCA REViEW, Wilda Morris’s Poetry Challenge, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Whispers and Echoes, and The Poet Anthology: Our Changing Earth.
She has written a poem a day since the start of the pandemic. Angela lives in rural Wisconsin.
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