Katherine Spadaro: Three Poems

Shortbread And Wine

On the table sparkle chinks of

crystalled disks and ruby pendants.

Stay, limbs folded, looking out

at rows of street-lights glistening.

Small dog dozing, deep grey room—

in soft-set air we quietly sit.

Pommes de Terre

I was standing in the kitchen peeling potatoes, and suddenly felt the earth tugging on my feet, and

how I stand! Upright, astonishing! Two small pillars always twitch and check to keep me at this right

angle to the floor. And it was so amazing that I wanted to close my eyes in awe of it, but laid down

the knife first, as it is sharp. And I wanted to write down this thought, but put the potato pieces in

the pot first, so that they would be done in time.

Katherine Spadaro

Gleaming through the glass, long ropes

of bright road gems coil and uncoil.

Inside this warmth, the only move

is gentle breathing stitching depth:

the smooth of warp and weft, the

careful making of a backdrop.

Katherine Spadaro

Sunset over the Bay

Houses cram the darkening hillside,

piled randomly, like shelf contents

in a closed tomb, selected to meet

the everyday needs of the dead.

Now rays are touching the windows.

And torches break into the tomb,

discovering tablets of gold.

Glimmering, shivering ribbons

reach gently down into the void.

Katherine Spadaro