Three Poems by Sheila Black
I know why a girl might wish to become a tree—to subject herself as if at random to any passing storm.
I know why a girl might wish to become a tree—to subject herself as if at random to any passing storm.
By early adolescence, her Yes sounded just like her No to me.
My internal Google Maps ticks off the landmarks.
If your veins say, drink from me, your life will never run out.
In shadows of white, light flooded above my head.
In my dream, the scene suddenly switched to a group of women telling Kundalini stories.
Imagine buying a bottle of beer and dumping half out. It makes me shudder.
Marisol informs me that I stop breathing during sleep.