September 6, 2013 by The Citron Review
Frantic is still my approach, how the hearts of coal men must move
as their bodies lurch underground.
Honey, I feel you is Tuesday’s recurring sadness, as my prying
reveals another unplanned layer.
Come to think of it, early on I was equipped with my own red wire to choose.
I plowed into most everything, but not like my grandfather, no grace
or tending, though we were both hardened.
His ‘I love you’ was a late balloon my mother tied to her wrist.
And mine today (for you) with its buzzing string of dove-vowels
is the movement of my hands, room after room, showing you.
Erin Veith is a poet from West Virginia whose work has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in such journals as: Open Thread, Greensboro Review, and The Aurorean. Erin earned her MFA from West Virginia University, and she now teaches writing courses at Duquesne University and the University of Pittsburgh. She currently lives in Murrysville, PA, where there’s a bit more greenery in the landscape to look at.