Little Red Boat (poem)

Sometimes a black hand reaches out from

under the earth and grips my frozen lungs.

Pulling them down and squeezing,

until a drop of something feeds it misshapen mouth.

At home, the baby and the bathwater

are the same shade of gray.

In the late March morning

the first light turns the tree tops red…

In the next pause, a

space, where the tree

asks the rock, “May I?”

With such politeness, any request is granted.

There’s no I that can die.

There’s as much beauty in the field

as in my breath, high or low

the little red boat stays afloat.