Two Poems by Lisa Furmanski
I tune to the wren and hear a thousand miles in a syllable.
I tune to the wren and hear a thousand miles in a syllable.
After it exercises its right to swell to a red giant and incinerate the younger earth.
It’s been so long that laugh tracks seem fresh again.
We didn’t realize the degree to which irrigation saturated our lives until our first trip to the Oregon coast.
We don’t know who buries us.
An artist of innuendo she imagines praise in her flight.
The snake had pulled himself mostly under the pallet and was peeking out, flicking the air with his tongue.
Well, if you have lost your mind, blame Union Carbide. Blame the Atomic Bomb.
That spring, still lamenting the loss of sidewalks, my daughter would barely leave the house without me by her side.
My decomposing body might be inspiration for whole tribes of thankful creatures in the soil.