Produce Aisle I bumped into my high school English teacher by the cucumbers, wandered through memories, writing seeds planted on a dusty desk, budding plant thriving in secret sentences, emerged in a beautiful purple flower picked by this white-haired woman hefting striped watermelons, she hugged me, bony shoulder blades through the faded sweater, watched her turn to the cantaloupe, pushing it to her nose, smiling satisfaction, A vine connected thirty years, met together in this produce section, each of us contemplating the green skins of grapes.
Weaker Sex When I start finishing your sentences, original thought a rearview mirror remembrance, captaining your subtle sublimity, versatile body hidden in folds of blue fabric, words erupt from my mouth as you tamp feelings, a tight jaw, disguise disgust behind falling hair, study the backs of your hands which I mistake for surrender, you perceive peace in silence, your wordless acquiescence, my blustering attempts to conquer, I plant my flag, strut to the ship, burning in the harbor.
John Poole is a professor of English education at BYU-Idaho. He finds that his students and family fill most of his time, but he finds time to closet write poetry
Grand Little Things 