Ann Alfonso
Bottle of Beach

Searching methodically for seashells,
and choosing carefully to decorate
the head of her grave,
I seem to remember a time
when oceans were cages, and
sand was wrapped in glass and handed
to me
in ribbons.

Vulnerability

Is it wrong to fear
a happiness that swirls and dances into the
depths of sunrise?
The chains of reserve, oppressive,
are slowly breaking
link by link,
and distrust is thawing and melting
like a thousand frozen bodies
losing their frigidity,
sinking slowly into one another.

Back to Issue 2, 1999