Poems from Alec Emerson
The spray of flowers
on the child's grave.
The spray of bullets
that made the kill.
The bullets laugh.
The flowers weep.
The ghosts of Wounded Knee
welcome you.
They are quiet and gentle.
No one has young eyes.
Their clothes are neatly patched,
their moccasins...
Some days ago, in Belfast,
holding bananas and figs,
waiting in line for my cup of coffee,
I suddenly froze, then
snapped around.
An...
Too young for a driver's licence,
I had my sister Birdie
take me to the Pike,
and there in Newton, Mass.,
I stuck out my thumb,
and headed...
venus has been moving south each day
on her rise above the trees,
but soon she will stop, and turn,
and retrace her steps,
and move north...