Two of Angela’s poems appear in the December 2014 issue of Watershed Review. Read More

Among foodies and four wines, we marvel
as the quail egg bubbles in its sabayon bath
with unalloyed luster, joke fondly
that, of course, such food
was not to his taste, not for my father
who ate an ordinary sort of egg,
boiled precisely three minutes Read More

the distance we cover is vast,
so immense that I take you
to another globe,
a cold one, countless epochs
from the sun’s core Read More

She lies down with us
thirteen months after she died.
One eye blinded,
sometimes the wig, last-ditch helmet in her war.
Her single breast, and nearby
shapeless clothes in plastic bags,
designated cast-offs if she got well. Read More

Adrian is getting shoulders.
He is scarcely brown
with several races mixed
into his exquisite skin.
I’m teaching his class simile
so they can get a leg up. Read More

Persuade Raven Wing,
future legendary local,
to yodel the coyote call,
barks so deep in her throat
she might mourn a lost world.
Yet the yip-yip of the pups
trying to keep up,
confuse coyotes with a wicked wind
whipping its broad tail
across the desert prairie. Read More

There is no reason to move fast,
not here, where the wind slaps
newcomers in the face,
insists we slow down
or miss the big prairie’s picture. Read More

The hay-gold light and the green sage will nourish me.
I will see an ibis, with a long neck, for my eyes only.
A crane will toss a stick and lure a faithful mate.
What bliss.

I will miss my son, my cat, and the rattle
of the Brooklyn train yard. Read More

This winter I lost
my waist,
my nest egg,
my columns,
our 90-year-old maple
whose tired roots surrendered to relentless storms,
my patience with slumdog renters,
a gazillion arguments,
all of my geraniums,
gallons of tears. Read More

A nod to Wallace Stevens, a bow to Basho

Dogwoods turn fecund,
succumb one to another.
Black boughs birthing blooms.

Onward Christian trees.
Eastertime’s righteous branches
blister with crosses. Read More