Fall
There’s a fog on my heart
I don’t know when from
a condensation of moldy heath
stuffed against cell walls too long
What do they call that? Those membranes
those gates – inside outside water pressure
should be
the same. Equalized until
it’s not.
A dry life
A wet garden
In the fall the leaves don’t rot
not yet
Dry until they are wet
Wet until they are dry
Saving water
between sheaths
of cells.
Rot only happens
after the frost
after the spring.
A Coldish May
Her dog bit her she said
it was by accident
as if in a haze
on the road
in the dust
She let the bite fester
till warm and hopeless
on a calloused hand
The dog’s mouth bloody
but innocent
She often said
she was looking
for a way out
She doesn’t answer
when you protest
that it’s still
spring.
Diagnostic differential
I know it’s cliché but
it feels like fire
Obviously no flame
You can’t actually see and attest
but still I’d like to stand by my word
except when they ask
they ask for verbs
They ask
is it
burning, stabbing, plunging, radiating
Is it
jabbing, throbbing, stinging, panting
I want to say
sharp like a tack
mean like a squib
rude like a fork
I want to say esoteric
not garden variety
I fail their test
But maybe they’re right
if a verb
is just a way
to stretch time
ad infinitum.
About Ruth Lehrer
Ruth Lehrer is a writer and sign language interpreter living in western Massachusetts. Her writing has been published in many journals such as Lilith and Jubilat. Her poetry chapbook, TIGER LAUGHS WHEN YOU PUSH, is published by Headmistress Press. Her young adult novel, BEING FISHKILL, is available from Candlewick Press. She can be found at ruthlehrer.com