Sometimes, my Dad sends me poetry

A poem by Laura Kasischke from her book, Gardening In The Dark


Deep in the ground, in the center

of a bulb, in the scarlet

darkness wrapped in crackling

there is a pinprick

of light.  It's hot.  It stirs. It's Spring--

pitiful and sweet as a small girl spanked.

My love, all of it, a life of it, has been

too little. Nor has my rage ever forced any diamonds

out of the blood through the skin.

How awful


for someone like me will be.  The teenage

girls are being dragged 

out of the earth by their hair.

Tongues, testicles, plums, and small hearts bloat

sweetly in the trees.  And then

a silence like water

poured into honey--

the silence of middle age.

But there are nights I feel a sacred

flower watching me.

Such affection!

Even in my cradle, it was waiting

warmly, its soft

white gaze

steady on my insufficient face.

Ripe to the Touch, watercolor, ink, oil and wax on Encausticbord, 8x8in, 2013