Attic Boxes

© Tess Taylor '00

I.  
Unsettled now, they scatter open—
inner chaos lifelike as odd birds.

They hold alibis & chatter, whir
of windows. Initials on a tarnished pitcher.  

Spidery pencil, Minneapolis, 1867. “Dear friend Lulu:
A cold wind whips this barren prairie.”


Bombay 1927: “I was presiding at the high school Jubilee:
the speaker referred to me as missionary Patriarch—”


1913: Helen’s verses to dawn on the Lusitania.
Helen crazed in Brussels and the Pater

Bluet

By Dan Chiasson '93

Flowers have faces. They are happy or sad.
Their faces change, like ours;
unlike us, it doesn’t mean
Uh-Oh a new mood out of nowhere dawned.

Technically it is immoral to kill a flower
but people do it all the time,
to smooth something over or please a lover.
Nature just rolls right on, headless.

Printed with the poet’s permission

Blue Flame

February 2003

When the sun is rising and my seven year old
catches it through the trees, and we sit
at the table, his slow oatmeal, my slow jam
and coffee, a dull magenta aching
in the horizon’s nook, and a sharp
steel-eyed blue above it,
and blue the hottest part of the flame,
I know we live under the light touch