poem index

poet

Jeanne Marie Beaumont

by this poet

poem
I think about the past. I empty the ice-cube trays
crack crack cracking like bones, and I think
of decades of ice cubes and of John Cheever,
of Anne Sexton making cocktails, of decades
of cocktail parties, and it feels suddenly far
too lonely at my counter. Although I have on hooks
nearby the embroidered apron
poem
         				   (June 30, France)

i

I set the cookbook on fire 
by holding it close to the 
reading lamp
	

ii

I began the reading lamp fire 
by holding it close
to romance


iii

I lit the romance by 
holding it
close to the cookbook
poem
The road out front is all torn up and has remained that way for a long time. One day they 
tractor-pulled the trunk of a fallen tree, its roots undone by the doings. Saw crews came in 
and buzzed for days like a disturbed hive. I could not save the flowers. Pyramids of pipe plastic 
appeared overnight. Rats,