Susan Milchman | Poet and Writer

I’m sorry that the lights go out

during every storm

for the fields of burned grass

for the mounting stacks of dead song birds

for the tulips

and their suits of delicate flesh

for your crumbling tree house

your abandoned woodpile of fallen stars

for your angry screen door

and all its broken ribs

I’m sorry for the noose around your kiss

your stiff armor

your stuttering fingers

your shipwrecked hands

for the stinging slap

across every hopeful face