Lisa Zaran Poems

Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.
...

Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
...

We drink to the night.
To tradition. To the lake's
tinsel. To the goose bumps
crawling across our skin.
...

As if we have
any answers.
Still, we imply.
...

In the room
where I learned how to lie,
to cover my bruises
with long sleeves,
...

She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
...

When I drive up
to Cottonwood
to see you,
...

~for Jackson C. Frank

It seems almost too far fetched really,
too difficult to believe.
...

I've lost my place
inside of this dream
where I am walking
along a dark road
...

love is believable
in every moment of exhaustion
in every heartbroken home
in every dark spirit,
...