ON THE ROAD
I am walking, walking on this road
I pick things up, examine them
know myself bit by bit.
I’ve found the polished femur of a lamb
a rusted spike
some rope twisted
Rapunzel’s hair
the knots of the family sweaters used for identifying
the dead as they wash up on the coast
a diagram for waving flags in doubt
a tangle of barbed wire twisted like strands of DNA
like what identifies us, a partnership,
a marriage
a clamshell hinged like the wings of a bee
the landing gear and one tire from an F-16
little bits of an alphabet, broken
hooked things
arched things
a rusted pair of scissors with one point chipped square
a thrush opening its throat to send a note the distance
polished agates in mason jars
the black stone of a jay’s eye
a recurring dream of rooms emptied,
opened windows, sunlight
a blunder worn smooth and round
a boy cursing and waving sticks
an armored bug that becomes a bullet
a flame fenced by a hand against the wind
a ruby, a flood, an iron gate
so many dead things:
finches, hummingbirds, rabbits, a mole
men rowing boats at dawn
a field of daffodils that returns regardless
a Grateful Dead ticket stub, New Years, 1976
a spool of deep blue upholstery thread
a pair of Barbie’s fishnet stockings
the rope, the wrench and the candlestick.
Patti Trimble lives in Sicily and California.
She is best known for her performances of lyric poetry with music.
She is also an essayist and painter.
Full bio on pages 3 and 5.
