Cynthia Jobin Poems

Feather in my hand:
crisp leaf that skitters windborne
nowhere in my head:
what is this song of paper
...

The morning after
we have had words. The sea is
in a cup of tea.
Almost the sound of falling.
...

He has become a thought
I take for Sunday rides,
bones in a woolen bag
hard-going into the back seat
...

the hearse
at the head
of the parade
...

I fear the
parking lot
like fish. Not
...