Pig in Park

 

What a wonderful thing
is a pig in park. Mon Cheri
Cochon, let’s go for a walk;
you are my dearest,
my pig in a park.

At cartwheels he’ll balk
& with an oink, yes,
remarks when the
pleasure is mine — walking
with swine in a park.

No, he’s not to eat
as indeed you can see,
but delight him with treats;
& he walks replete — my big
pig, NOT pork, in a park.

Now lightning bugs join us &
the sky falls dark. Children
break smiles as I dance
a jig & we’re happy to be
in a park with a pig.

© 2016 Anna Mosby Coleman

Cinco de Mayo

The Fifth of May
for my brother Stuart

I was not too political, as I
was counting on you to express
my heart of hope without the difficulty
of saying out loud the things
that divide. These were not

Arguments that I wanted.
Then one October Sunday dying
– 5.5 months from that fifth of May –
[Twas an agonizing Cinco de Mayo
when you prophesied your fate.] &

Your halting words tried to
sustain me although crying
from the pain of bodily betrayal –
pancreas riddled with pathology &
a liver fading faster than your sprints of

Sweet athleticism so strong &
yet they could not catch a break
to win nor hold this awful thing at bay.
Now from that May & autumn-of-loss
I find myself shouting

For justice with your own words of
force that made me shy. Your politics
of mercy now grow fierce inside me until
I wonder each day how a man
of heaven holds the earth this way.

© 2016 Anna Mosby Coleman

Falling

Falling

Leaning back while leaves

Are falling, I remember you

With this view, and brush away

Crumbs with the helicopter seeds,

Remnants of lazy games and

A sweet break, the crunchy Tate’s treat

Tasting like cookies that Mama

Baked. She stored them far from our

Reach. Up high in a dented tin that

Kept the deliciousness crisp and sturdy.

Like this beautiful day, when I am again

With you in the wonder of this season

That is yours. Yours of birth and death and

New England. I am watching, waiting, wishing

You were back standing with me in fallout of

Everything. The trees are swaying in the wind.

Leaves take their circuitous path to earth again

They brush against my cheek like a celestial kiss,

Or a postcard from heaven.

© 2015 Anna Mosby Coleman