by Karen Friedland
Today, a woman was wrenched awake by crows at sunrise
after six slender hours of sleep.
She listened to trees being murdered
for much of the morning
while working sludge-ily on the computer
as loud street trucks rolled by.
Her gut was punched over and over
by the aftereffects of ill-advised surgery
10 years hence
that will live inside her forever.
At day’s end,
she downed a Scotch
and too many sugary snacks
and slumped into early-sunset oblivion
with two tender rescue dogs
slumbering at her feet,
and birds chirping in the dark evening trees,
and the sheer murderousness of this world
was once again somehow forgiven.
* * * * *
A grant writer by day, Karen Friedland has poems published in The Lily Poetry Review, Constellations, Nixes Mate Review, Writing in a Women’s Voice, Vox Populi and others. One of her poems was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and another was displayed on the walls of Boston’s City Hall. Her books are Tales from the Teacup Palace (Červená Barva Press) and Places That Are Gone (Nixes Mate Books). She lives in West Roxbury, MA.