Copyright © February 2015, by Liz Bennefeld.
All rights reserved.
Oceans stream outward,
like ribbons in a whirlpool,
toward our new black hole.
I set off one day on a junket
With bedroll, a bag, and a bucket.
The roads, so they say,
run only one way.
How did I end up on Nantucket?
“The Ties That Bind”
Love, your touch envelops me in your near presence.
Earth I am to your Sun. I am bound to you, my still, strong center.
The passion that is yours has deepened, broadened, grown,
Melded us together like warm wax to heady fragrances.
Encompassing, you protect me from all outward dangers.
Gaze into my eyes and tell the truth–unless you die
Or turn your back on me, I cannot leave you.
“Not a Foggy City Street”
When people and penguins pass through doors, they leave
their short-term memories where they no longer are.
This is why penguins, having deemed primordial ice sheets least likely
to sprout city center architecture that would block the view
of morning sunrises and tow’ring clouds that carry snow–
forever multiplying amnesia’s doorways and confusion–
have settled in there permanently. At least until
those they eschewed have blacked ice and snow
and ushered in the age of
All poems by Liz Bennefeld, February 2015. All rights reserved.