a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Poems By Amy Jirsa

Waxing Equinox

I sit in the tepid
bathwater of September,
checking days off the calendar
like drips fallen from the faucet.

I slouch down and regard my toes
dolefully-
painted the inappropriate pink
of dizzy August in her gaudy
afternoon muumuu, which she adjusts
as she looks over the cliff of sunset,
dancing to her own baseline while,
downstairs, the southern hemisphere
(cranky from being winter wakened,
staggering in sagging,
not quite white underwear),
beats on the ceiling
with a long broom handle.
for the umpteenth time

I pull my feet back through the
surface of soap scum, needing
the invigorating, brisk
prod of October.
But floating here patiently,
I know the time will come and
I will rise,

don the burnt orange robe
of fallen leaves,
and crackle to life like
the logs in my fireplace,
dormant these long, hot months.

Soon life will be
post-bath:
warm toast with peanut butter,
hot tea,
beef stew,
wool socks,
and nights spent under
covers filled by
feathered martyrs
while being read my favorite
folklore by the grandmother
sitting and knitting,
reading and rocking
in the orange harvest moon
while affectionately patting the heads
of all of her stars
until we sleep.


A transplant from the East Coast, Amy Jirsa now resides in Lincoln, Nebraska. While she comes from a literary family and has written poetry since the age of eight, she can only hope that her work has gained in artistry over the years, though she fears the honesty of childhood may have already slipped away.

 

Copyright 2007  Chantarelle's Notebook