Jul/Aug 2001  •   Poetry


by Suzanne Frischkorn


Ice melts in the sun
slips tomorrow / today
inside a gutter stream
less a paper boat

This Easter my brother
will be dead 8 years
and I will celebrate
my 31st birthday
four years shy of his full life.

more a straw
striped red, striped white
blocked by the odd rock
the empty coke can
the straw spins, eases by

In June it will be 17 years
since the day in the woods when I bled
on a boy's coat out of curiosity
and only a year and a half
since I stopped wanting to be touched.

(sand, salt, silt)
cargo nestled
in its long belly.

Tomorrow marks my son's 10th year.
A round number ten,
it bounces off his lips.

Perhaps a yellow boot stops
the straw for a moment.
Yellow boots move too
on to the next puddle.