Four Poems


Daily, there are challenges.  My son needs
suboxone.  My daughter needs a distraction
from her world of cats and television.
My mother calls on the telephone.
My father spins his seventeen year old dead breath
across my spindly shoulder.  My husband
shows his hidden hand.  My evening eats
into morning and all because
I'm a slave to it all.



And all because I'm a slave to it all
the morning sings like war.
Bird call, dog call, the peace of evening
dissipates.  I wake a sufferer of dreams.
The car I dreamed of disappears.
I vanish too, like a slave, silent and naked.



I, too, should be institutionalized.
I'm too old to be cute.  Too young to be buried.
Might as well just curl my hair, wear
a sheer nightdress and dance across some downtown
tragedy of a parking lot.

Let my breasts, un-brazier-ed , lead another woman
to call the authorities.  Say pigeons, come give me a wing.
Hurry now, before the winds fall.

Hush now, pretty dirty birds, now we must die.



The summer approaches
and my love is gone.

I wish it were winter.
I wish it were snow.

I wish I had a spark-rain
of chance, some impetus

to ricochet my life
to happiness.

Tomorrow, the red dream
will plunge.  My heart

will fill with sand.
The bird in my heart

will cry, but his cries
will be meaningless.

I've grown used to walking
on slippery feet.

So should he.

Lisa Zaran

If you have any comments on this poem, Lisa Zaran would be pleased to hear them.