Joseph Milosch

Mother Pins Her Braids

Mother pins her braids in concentric circles

to the top of her head. Each ring appears

as a mysterious crop circle. In sunlight,

the pupils of her eyes become identical wells

in twin wheat fields.

Lying in the grass with her son, she tells a tale

about children whose mothers are scarecrows,

smoking corn silk while crows squawk,

and the corn covers its ears tightly

with green leaves.

 

Under the October Night

lamp light landed on concrete,

as the cold and hungry

walked the streets of Chicago. 

Some spread their bedding

on the sidewalk. They were

not safe from the cold.

Laying down, the sleepers

turned their backs to the cars,

creating the winds of traffic. 

They blended with the gusts

coming off the Great Lake

and frosting the high-rise windows.

Apartments.    Apartments.

Apartments lined the streets

and dwarfed the redbrick factories.

Earlier today, the fall leaves

belonged to the elms outside of

the Holy Name Cathedral. 

The trees stood in front

of the basilica with its tall,

thin stain-glass windows.

A pigeon flew through the doorway,

and past the image of a bearded saint.

His lips held a permanent frown.

Believing this sanctuary

was for members only,

he wanted the bird chased

from this place of worship,

but the Polish, cleaning woman

refused. ‘No, let it drink,’ she said

as she scraped the candle drippings

from below the Votive stands.

In the vestibule’s warm safety,

the purple throated bird

perched on the holy water bowl.

Carefully, it swallowed,

drop by drop,

the heart’s first nectar.

 

La Jolla Tidepools

This morning, Patsy, we are in our fifties.

Braiding our fingers, we stroll slowly, 

and watch our barefoot shadows cross

the sand beside the cliffs. The ocean

sparkles as far as we can see, and we seem

as young as we were once in the evening

when we strolled under street lights.

Remember yourself young, shy, and idly

loitering with me on main street. You

are still shy as you walk next to me

on this beach and over the rough stones,

holding the secret caves of tidepools.

Stopping, we watch the hermit crab

that cult leader, strutting his wealth

in the bottom of the pool. You are here.

I am beside you. We control nothing

but tell the ocean’s mood by its waves.

They blindly rise, falling and leaving

tatters of foam that erase our footprints.

As the surf abandons the kelp’s

wing-shaped leaves to the sand fleas,

the sandpiper tenses before sprinting

behind the receding waves. This morning,

we are old and walking hand in hand

along the water’s edge on the Pacific.