LIZ WINFIELD


Two poems


love song


for π.ο.


how little do we ever know those we love
how little do we ever love those we know
how do we ever love those we know a little
do those we know ever love a little
do those we love ever know a little
love a little everyone you know



Wednesday


something was being killed in the night
woke with ball hands hot and fixed
the brick in my spine again
my head pillows my crown of thorns
each new day
wishing my babies here   or someone

cried for a woman I've never met
saw her kids as only a futured-person can
years of loss to come
the glass is only ever filling
no one calls
if a stick falls   pick it up

dead mouse on the floor
the perfectly placed still life
don't give it a human face
the dog at the door looks in
it is good to be able to walk away
one day is much the same as another