Beth Lyons

portrait of a cafe the one who is steaming milk is bright. the one who watches is light. the one who is light balances, watchful. the one who is watchful is light with expectations. the one who is steaming milk is bright and spicy; she sparkles on the wooden floor of a mocha room. the one who steams and the one who waits are together in a wooden mocha room. the room is warm and silky like mocha, inviting and cradling both the one who steams and the one who waits for lunch.

two voices if i could reach across the cold field of your stare, across this waste i have plowed, if i could find any living thing left in our garden, would you water it with your tears? did you think i couldn’t hear you slip your heart into an overnight bag? that i was struck silent by the power of your lips? a cold monument unaware of the draft you left in our bed? do you think i’m a blank page waiting for you to retrace the paths of our love, that i am a pillar of salt ready to …Read more »

sacrament as if in a dream i touch that delicate ridge, so like the petal of a rose falling away. a hidden, salty pearl nestles quietly, waiting. your secret; my sacrament.

turtle moon for Anne Merchant when we met you were heavy with life, graceful and divine with purpose, making me feel like an empty shell tumbled by the rising tide. i wanted to feel every line of your broken back, burn them into my soul, thread myself to you. witnessing the relentless shudders of motherhood woke me; i am swollen now, with secrets written down to the sea, with your every step like my dying breath.

for Debbie “If you value your freedom, do not reveal that my face is the prison of love.” Leonardo da Vinci six years ago, and a day, i trapped you in my prison of love. you didn’t know at first that it was a prison, relaxed and easy enough to slip through the wrought iron of society. you felt the cold metal first on a January night when i couldn’t stare you away from the guy your dad said was so good for you. couldn’t stare him away or declare my love aloud in the parking lot and had to …Read more »

the structure of love i remember your hands balancing my bike ride. those blunt fingers helping with my fractions. tacking a sailboat in a Cape Cod storm. taking my rook for checkmate. littering the kitchen table with the springs and gears of an old clock. a single finger tracing the path of the radiation therapy. the hand clutching my shirt, bringing me down to hear those last words i need a bedpan. your hand i held, watching your chest rise, counting the growing seconds between breaths. your hand held her hand when you cut the wedding cake. strong, sure fingers …Read more »

In high school I wrote bad poetry, lots and lots of bad poetry. The trend continued through my early years in college. I was lonely, so very lonely, and poetry made me feel better. And then I did a silly thing in 1987, I signed up for a poetry class.At that point I’d been writing — “writing” for over four years. But I figured, eh maybe this class will help me improve.   It is hard to explain exactly what Dr. Ron Moran’s class did to me. I went from banging stones together to creating music. In true Emily Dickinson …Read more »