by Lisa Marie Brodsky
In my house, every book I ever owned
has a picture of a girl working the Ouija board
as if to remind me that only blindfolded
can I communicate.
Great-great Grandmother Sadie, the dancer,
died of the 1918 flu. First, her chest collapsed,
then her legs, as if to remind me that
ones passions can continue even with phlegm
and bacteria-ridden air.
And the worst case of lovesickness
Ive had was with the foreigner who made
me pasta in his orange kitchen as if to remind
me that the mysterious and miraculous
can be found in the mundane.
Walking around the block I see people
on bicycles, side by side, as if to tell
me to trust the force near me,
be that man, woman or spirit.
In my house, every painting shows an arm
reaching out to the sun, which reminds
my daughter to either never touch the stove
or always strive for goodness.
Posted on 01/03/2006
Copyright © 2022 Lisa Marie Brodsky