Format

Carol leaves fresh poems
on the kitchen table, four line stanzas,
left aligned, regular spacing,
a line of portholes to her center.

With morning tea I peak in, glimpse
a jade moon in the space between stars
lighting the fresh plum blossoms,
purple spice escapes the garden

on a dapple gray we call Snow Ghost.
In late fall when the weather changes
Carol makes innocent adjustments,
five line stanzas, then eight, then nineteen,

nineteen? What does that mean?
She scatters words across the page
in ways I can’t track, the word on the right
doesn't line up with the three in the middle

that don't see the one floating
along the left margin, my dyslexic sight
collects the words and assembles a window
to a black moon. The autistic part of my brain

finds meaning, frustration and anger
not seen before, I won't have her back,
I won't have that hate in my house.