by Jeanine Stevens


When I see gypsies select brilliant madras

at the dry goods store in Edinburgh

I think of you.


When I notice all things yellow: calendula,

canary, butter, camel.


When I buy exotic carpet I don’t need, the wrong

shape, that strange mustard color.


When I refuse to eat the dark meat of a goat.

When the sky mottles blue

above pale and heavy oak galls.


When April winds scatter cottonwood debris

in the breezeway

and crows scold the resident hawk


cawing above the redwood, flames reflected

in a beaded eye, I think of you.


How your stride cuts the brief day,

anything particle, flakes, sun dabs. Icons


like confetti, shred, invade, settle into me.

I fold, hold and cut scraps,

a collage of brass hearts.


Jeanine Stevens’ second poetry collection, Inheritor, was released by Future Cycle Press, 2016. Her most recent chapbook, Needle in the Sea, was published by Tiger’s Eye Press. Her next chapbook, Brief Immensity, winner Finishing Line Press Open Chapbook Award will be published in 2017. Jeanine has other awards from the MacGuffin Poet Hunt, the Ekphrasis Prize, the Stockton Arts Commission and WOMR Cape Cod Community Radio. Her poems have appeared in Stoneboat, Arsenic Lobster, Rosebud, Camas, Evansville Review, The Connecticut River Review, and Sentinel and Dragonheart (UK). Jeanine recently received her fourth Pushcart nomination. She studied poetry at UC Davis and California State University and has graduate degrees in Anthropology and Education. Professor at American River College. She was raised in Indiana and now divides her time between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe.

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