Archive for June, 2014

June 7, 2014






Packet of Poetry for Kate

June 7, 2014

Fear of Flying
For Kate
Rachael Z. Ikins (c) 2014

12 years ago almost-birthday.
Muggy July, heat embargo.
10 p.m. My thighs stuck to vinyl.
Diesel fragrant air, tired tourists,
rumpled in, jackets lumped on arms, 
meandering toward Baggage Claim.
I watched them dwindle.

All my losses, deaths, griefs-accumulated
weighted my ribs, my own stained satchel.
Corridors echoed, tourists vanished,
hydraulic doors hissed at the night
like a frightened cat.
My thighs stuck to vinyl. 

Does the airport stay open 24/7?
At “too late” a blue-suited man entered 
a secret door from the tarmac.
He carried my sharded heart,
white basket hung from one finger.
My thighs stung unstuck,
he smiled,

“Is this yours?”

I took my beating heart,
my own two hands, 
pressed my face, painful metal.
Blue crocheted baby-blanket,
two enormous ear-tips poking through. 
This exact moment

I knew your wings; 
that you had grabbed me 
by my scruff, 
would carry me high,
heal me of 
my fear of flying
no matter how I squall.
For Kate
Rachael Z. Ikins (c) 2014

After sun and full of joie de vivre
you clamber up my pillow stack.
Vibrating like an engine you lick
my chin raw purple if you can tease
me out of the pile. You unfold yourself
along my face. Intuitive, eyes and mouth
touch souls’ intimacy.

You flop 6 pounds, tiptoed silk over my nose.
You purr, no color in your dark
new-moon eyes. You are so happy.
I have to laugh. I can’t breathe with a nose
of full of you. You fit exactly into
my elbow crook, my fingers 
just long enough to tuck beneath
your paws.
Dawn Journeys
For Kate
Rachael Z. Ikins (c) 2014

You divide the drapes,
a comb, hanks of hair.
Slip without sound onto sill.
300 ways to welcome sun-
Bare your belly.
Spread your toes.
Reach your arms.

Regard me upside down,
twin blues blink.
You do not look away
when you descend,
pour onto my chest,
heated hot, smelling wild.

Dogs look away, wag, worry
about starting a fight. 

You don’t care what I want.
(I only want you)
You transport me to your universe,
turquoise sky, midnight.

And hold me there.
You hold me as I fall into your eyes.
I do not even cry out as your claws
prick my collar-bones’ skin. 
For Kate
Rachael Z. Ikins (c) 2014
Your hair smells like gin.
Crisp, of-the-forest, cold.
You spent a day hoarding 
sunlight, posing on one
windowsill after another.
Washing yourself of winter.
You followed the light
east to west. By evening
you’d soaked so many
rays, you were gravid
with heat, gold, and 
that juniper

scent. You hold my wrist
between your teeth, your
pupils dark moons, your sky-
blue eyes. You do not break 
skin. I push my face into
your flank. I cannot resist you.
You murmur, a one-syllable
seduction. Throw yourself
onto/into weave, stories,
oriental rug. Bare pink,
pink belly to night’s 

More than Enough, poem by Marge Piercy

June 2, 2014

Soon, soon

Silver Birch Press

by Marge Piercy

The first lily of June opens its red mouth.
All over the sand road where we walk
multiflora rose climbs trees cascading
white or pink blossoms, simple, intense
the scene drifting like colored mist.

The arrowhead is spreading its creamy
clumps of flower and the blackberries
are blooming in the thickets. Season of
joy for the bee. The green will never
again be so green, so purely and lushly

new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads
into the wind. Rich fresh wine
of June, we stagger into you smeared
with pollen, overcome as the turtle
laying her eggs in roadside sand.

SOURCE: “More than Enough” appears in Marge Piercy‘s 176-page collection Colors Passing Through Us (Alfred A. Knopf, 2003), available at

IMAGE: “June Lily” by Paul Trunk. Prints available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Poet, novelist, and essayist Marge Piercy was…

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More than Enough, poem by Marge Piercy

June 2, 2014

More than Enough, poem by Marge Piercy.