I’ve been singing in a dead language
about the sun. The children know
it can come back to life; just ask the Israelis
who made up words they couldn’t find
in the Torah—t-shirt, rainbow.
But rainbow must have been there.
Maybe I’m remembering this wrong.
In my dream I was on a farm
presenting a PowerPoint.
One slide was a picture of a mother
kneeling by her child, the other a backyard
abutting the Newton Creek. In real life one of
its branches is called English Kills. Continue reading “2 Poems by Monica Wendel”