Posts Tagged ‘Wendy Vardaman’


March 28, 2008 2 comments

In the week that winter
yields to spring, the last snow seeps
into the saggy-doored garage, between wide foundation gaps,
through unevenly settled concrete plates, mixing there
with leaves left by late November:
fall sediment that dries, shrinks, then swells and steeps
as thaw replaces freeze, requiring lapsed
rituals of broom and rake, soap and wipe. I clear

a path to reach my sleeping bike;
extract a stack of dingy plastic chairs, once white;
excavate the dog’s ripe backyard waste,
look for crocus, daffodil, lilac
that shoot up and open in a blink; debate whether we ought
to risk geraniums yet; watch for signs of the buried-last-fall cat, heaved back.

by Wendy Vardaman

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November 30, 2007 Comments off

Desert magician, darkling
— imagine
if you woke

to find your lost twin lying
empty alongside
you in bed —

dead. Or if in the middle
of, at work, import-
ant drivel,

you came unfastened. Do you
step with care or kick
the useless

you aside, pretend you do
not see it lying
there? Or, con-

sider, lost in a roman-
tic declaration,
the likely

embarrassment when a bone-
splitting crack is heard.
The shell falls

away revealing nothing
over and over,
but itself.

by Wendy Vardaman

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Categories: Insecta Tags:
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