A trio of scarlet tomatoes
perch on my kitchen windowsill,
traveled here in the hands of a friend.
These are New Mexican tomatoes, brought to my Portland home,
tres soles against the grey rain of Oregon.
She made salsa for me, and was on her way,
leaving behind her luminous Kat-laughter,
and three red tomatoes.

Awakened on this chilly morning by the sound of geese
returning from their winter homes.
I am nestled in my bed,
a cat at my feet,
another at my head.
And the dog, sleeping soundly on the floor beside the bed,
responds to the honking with lifted ears and thumping tail.
Although she’s a retriever, she’s never seen a bird in the wild.
A toy mallard, torn apart & well-loved,
and a bright green rubber football bearing the logo of the Oregon Ducks
are the closest she’s come.
Perhaps one day soon I’ll take her to the duck park
let her run wild among the gathered fowl,
to hear the righteous indignation of their honks as they scatter before her.

In a hypothetical world,
I am a ***** goddess of poetry,
Enshrined in my coffeehouse castle,
my words the songs of a generation.
Attended by sugary seraphim upon my beach side throne,
my name resonates on the tongues of cappuccino demigods.
He, bespectacled, brilliant, falls at my feet,
quoting darkly my childlines.
As gilded graces join us in our dance,
we whirl through a city of stars into
our moonpalace home.
Fall through velvet loveclouds into beds of miracles.
Strongly carefree of wings or wheels,
tasting of copper and chocolate,
a literary, bad-­tempered love of scarlet phrases in my head.
He whispers, solemn:
“God has spoken, and he sounds like Elvis.”