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LINDA BENNINGHOFF

I am published in about 30 magazines, including The Journal, Erbacce, The People's Poet Anthology, Current Accounts and others. I have a MA in English with an emphasis on creative writing from SUNY at Stony Brook. I recently translated The Seafarer from Old English. I have published two chapbooks, The Street Where I Was A Child and Departures.

August Evening

The still august evening light falls over us.
Words scatter between us.
They seem to come from beyond the two purple hills,
tell of your suffering,
the early death
doctors predict for you.
In the yard
a sparrow is separating its wings,
In another country
a soldier with one arm
uses the good arm to drink water.

II

Droplets of rain start,
wet on my face.
I know you and
the speech that patters between us.
I feel the meanings
without yet knowing them.

WINTER

The wan song of a bird

A deep silence

I had forgotten to take into account

since last I heard your pattering speech.

The dark rain gusts and envelops

grass and trees,

careless,

inevitable,

speaking to no one.

GREY DAYS

No one speaks
of orange buds that may open,
roads filling up with fuzz.
I keep only one note
like prayer
single and dull,
that will help me bear
this cold sun
and mute night flowing eastward.

707 ST. PAUL STREET

Mourning doves travel north

seek seed

beside the dogwood.

Travelers in a train

we will never see again

or take shopping for shoes.

I go to the city

to my old home

sit down next to the iron railing,

the winter clings pale.

LATE AFTERNOON

Mary and I

were going to get ice cream

while we waited

for a class to start up.

We talked about little.

Everything ran into orange,

a bright heavy orange

that wasn't delayed

or welcome.