Elizabeth Woody Poems

Filled with old lovers, in the clutch of the chair,
you are a bloom of uncombed hair.
...

The buildings are worn.
The trees are strong and ancient.
They bend against the grid of electric lines.
The windows are broken
...

The irresistible and benevolent light
brushes through the angel-wing begonias,
the clippings of ruddy ears for the living room.
...

It was bruise marks of hands that alluded to tracks of murder.
Her neck was twisted too many times in short rope,
and the tree too high for a small woman.
...