Poems by Laura Jensen

The strings of lights flash alternately
in the daylight, shake me up visually

because I am not used to being out here
before Christmas or to lights on in the day.

My mother's funeral was miles away
at the church where I was confirmed

and my father's graveside services –
all that was years ago by now

and I am not sure I should be at church
all the time. The black and white bait shop

cat whose photo now has two dates on it
sleeps on the bench in my drawing book.

Beyond the window in the cold a large
half a ferry. And only a mast

pulls away from somewhere below the rail.
The duck's ruddy head and white spot

who rides the waves – it was outside
my experiences, like a negative shape

through clear surface his visible dive.
I had never seen goslings.

But their group that floated to the ruffle
of shoreline – fifteen – and four parents

repeated a familiar chord –
dainty velocity to the seaweed at the rocks

the way dancers in a ballet start
all at once and hurry in one direction.

We stand on the walkway above them.
Bur from the bus window

a tail disappears into a cat door.
Something I never saw before

Published in Haydens Ferry Review/U. of Arizona

Last Updated: Jan 4, 2006 9:40 AM