~for Alice Rose Lee (1952-2018)
The Canada geese flap north in formation, when one veers
I worry about that goose, how it will fend.
We’re all flock animals.
We need one another. We’re all made of air.
- Her Brushes, Her Pens, Her
Her brushes, her pens, her ink.
Her paper, scissors, stone.
Her gluestick, masking tape, mask.
Her sunflowers, sunsets, ghostly trees, roses.
Her easel, paint-stained hands, pain.
Her date. Her frame. Her chop. Her name.
That rattle in the passenger armrest?
His wife’s red lipstick. Those reading glasses
in the glovebox? Hers. That map folded and torn,
that stale donut under the seat, that tin angel
hanging from the rearview mirror? All hers.
Wayne Lee lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Lee’s poems have appeared in such magazines as Pontoon, Tupelo Press, The New Mexico Poetry Review, Slipstream, and other journals and anthologies.
He was awarded the 2012 Fischer Prize and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and three Best of the Net Awards.
His collection “The Underside of Light” was a finalist for the 2014 New Mexico/Arizona Book Award. He is currently working on a memoir and a full-length collection of septets.