In the auto showroom, I estimate
how many petrochemicals
are fueling the yuletide display —
one artificial tree, mid-sized.
by Therese L. Broderick
His answer / could be Yes / could be No / Nay / or / Yea /
He reflects, reviews, opens debate, closes discussion,
his indecision akin to miniblinds (maybe) Venetian.
by Therese L. Broderick
From her kitchen chair, she listens to the wind. Sugar sifter.
From a room upstairs, she listens to the wind. El train.
From the cellar door, she listens to the wind. Penny whistle.
Her only brother, all winter in bed, coughs & coughs & coughs.
A four-line fiction by Therese L. Broderick
Today I give thanks for poetry, poets, metaphors, the moon, and more…
by Therese L. Broderick
Week by week, wind wears away the masks
of forest leaves, exposing the ravaged heads,
those enormous vacant nests.
by Therese L. Broderick
Be among peoples who believe their future
crouches behind them, not yet seen or heard; and
their past splays before them, already known.
Look, listen, to their otherwise animal:
by Therese L. Broderick
Still trembling in the lady spider’s web —
the balled tummies of eight daddy long-legs.
She danced with the stars, outstepping every one.
Therese L. Broderick
