Leo Vanderpot lives in Croton-on-Hudson, New York. He dedicates his poem to Bill Read, a teacher at Boston University, remembered with thanks for more than five decades.
He knows he’s good not a good cook loves it too much maybe not always a good father butcept when back in time he gave his children a bath then he was in good heaven
The brunettes and the bankers stroll behind me in threes, each in love with one who can’t exist, each surveying corners. It’s 5:45 and the call to prayer flares up from the Modern Mosque. The crows in the magnolia trees are calling for plunder. Boys shoot baskets in the schoolyard, and seventeen green walnuts have […]
This is where we sat once, cinder blocks for back steps, trumpet vine spreading under the siding. You played so many songs on your old harmonica and I danced. When the heat went out, you combed tangles from my hair, fed me straight from the jam jar. The mail piled in the corner— old pennysavers, […]
Near death, sometimes the hands curve into themselves like claws. I held my mother’s open, smoothing the fingers, trimming the wild nails. Once, years before, my husband and I awoke to a fawn caught in the family compost, a hole on its back end festering with worms, and he pinched each one out swiping his […]
I confess now I have begun to henna my red hair gone dull in parts and penny bright in others. And I always tried to subdue its wildness. But when the hull of our marriage busted rock and began to leak, we both thought it was a good idea to renovate the kitchen, together, by […]