Seven Years of Bad Luck

She walked
under ladders
and opened umbrellas
in the house, let milk boil over
and laughed.

The howls
of black cats never bothered her
until the mirror broke
as the door slammed
him out.

Deborah Kolodji




Why We Write Autumn Poems in February

Because
the eye is starved.
White is both all color
and none, the light that first pierces
the womb.
The shroud
we wrap around
the body of our grief
while searching for more vivid hues,
snow blind.

Lisa Janice Cohen