oregonpoetry

WESTWARD EXPANSION: The Discovery of Medford Dee Chadwell “Go west, young man,” Horace Greeley declared, and a hundred years later we did. From six miles up we watched as the patchwork quilt of the plains rolled past beneath us and wrinkled into ridge after ridge of mountains. We changed planes in San Francisco and veered

On reading the news of my neighbor’s foreclosure Your daughter was building a bookshelf that last time we had tea, sunlight a shawl over your shoulders. Two curly haired grandchildren pushed past our legs and we each brushed our fingers along their backs, they arched like lazy cats and then crawled away. The pines behind

Tradition We serve Thanksgiving dinner on the back of our father’s polished guitar, there is a breadboat and a small aperture full of violets. This we are expected to repeat each year. One day I take the guitar from behind the reredos. I carve dense mayhem into the spruce. I offer the guitar to a

Monarchs As their wings dry out of the chrysalises, the party’s hostess uncurls their long tongues with a thin stick, introduces them to molasses under gauze. That’s how they learn with butterfly intelligence to locate substitute narcissus. Now, one sips from the edge of the punch bowl. Another lights on Bridey’s hair, then Terence’s shoulder.