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Kelly Cressio-Moeller


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I see the horizon’s crimson vein and recall the stained washcloth in your small room. I thought (truly this is what I thought) that someone must have wiped the juice from a freshly cut watermelon then placed the neatly folded cloth in the sink. No matter that it was not watermelon season or that you had died that morning, dead before your head hit the table. In that moment before grief rolled up its sleeves, your dark-eyed daughter stood before the stainless basin, wringing the cloth under the tap.

Portent Big Sur

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vulture flies over the car
through cypress, the Pacific glares
did I run over the baby quail?
pink sweet peas tongue dry grass
stuck in my gums, pin bones from lunch
crying during meditation
limping doe does not return
earring lost
ants in the bed
scorpion’s tail striking starry-milk
middle of the night Coast Guard dives
great gray owl warns the spilling moon
migraine fog at 5 a.m.
Monday’s twin-yolked egg
the vulture circles back

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