magpie's shiny things - Page 2 - shiny things in messy little piles

Heat Haze

Heat Haze

I want salt’s tenderness and the taste 
of your flesh on my tongue. The softness 
of peaches in summer when the days 
are too long. I want oregano and lemons. 
The sweet bitterness of tonic and lime 
pulling the summer heat out of my skin.
I want the musk of sun-warmed blackberries 
eaten while standing by the side of the road.    
I want the cool richness of the cream 
we spill over the crumble we make 
with the berries that we do not eat 
there in the August shimmer.

Published on The Laundry Line, 27 January, 2026.

Pariah Dog

Pariah Dog 

this rangy dog
	that you all assume
	is homeless is actually 
homeward bound
at the end of the night.
this pariah dog, known to me 
only as ‘dog”
	dog, sit
	dog, lie down
	dog, get away
	dog, do you want to come into the garden 
to sleep for in the sun for an hour?

deep in his day-time sleep
he walks dream-dark alleys
watching the rats
for signs of offal, 
oil drenched coleslaw,
the gristly ends of 
chicken wings
someone leaves in bags beside
the dumpster.
	so easy to knock over,
	so easy to rifle through,
	so easy to carry home,
an alley treasure
to leave at my backdoor.

Published on The Laundry Line, 20 January, 2026.

Sonnet, circa 2024.

Sonnet, circa 2024

Hold a leaking pen over an inadequate 
notebook. Chew on the derivation of “grace” 
from the Latin gratis—meaning pleasing. 
Seek a place for “apostle” in description 
of a wren. Stand in a mist looking for a verb to 
describe the lightness of the raindrops. 
Break a line against the breath, carry on 
long past where human lungs can take us. Cross 
a sea of images in a flat bottomed boat; play out line;
hope to catch a fresh allegory on a poorly baited hook.
Grope for metaphors lost like loose change 
under the couch cushions. Head down to the bus stop. 
Tumble into the rhythms of another poet’s mind. 
Look for echoes of your own presentments.

Published on The Laundry Line, 13 January, 2026.

Resurrection

Resurrection

Even our own sun will, one day, 
leave its ordained round of the sky
no longer crossing the Milky Way  
or shining only on the 
moon’s bright side.
But wandering off into the weeds
to lie down and rest,
Say to us—no, no you go ahead.

In the dark, waiting,
time will tumble 
unstuck from the clock face.
We will forget
how to determine
lines of meridian.
We will imagine the histories 
of the gods 
that will come after us.

Until the new sun rises,
more rosy than golden.
A sun that dances 
with the planets 
and leads the moon on 
a leash made of spider silk.
And we will watch as
it goes crooked
down the mountain side
carving a new path for the little
stars that spill after.

Published on The Laundry Line, 6 January, 2025.

Catherine Wheel

Catherine Wheel

I live in a pyrotechnic universe 
garish with a bright mathematics 
that allows me to calculate 
how much it has cost me
to buy Rita Hayworth’s 
second wedding dress,
some purple fairy lights 
to hang from my umbrella,
and a pair of ruby slippers 
that will take me anywhere but home.
By 3am,  I have lost my mother’s ring, 
the heel of my right shoe,
and your phone number.
Carrying only my hope of redemption 
and someone else’s car keys,
I cross the lawn, on fire 
and spinning.

Published on the Laundry Line, 30 December, 2025.