“Remembering Anna” by Marianne Forman (from the Read a Poet, Write a Poem workshop)

Her fingers always smelled of cabbage, Not like my mother’s hands From the raw bacon she’d wrap Around the Halupkis, But like the boiling water she’d plunge Her hands into after slivering out The core of the cabbage, Unafraid of the blade. I used to think her fingertips Must be callused hard scalded beyond All

“Bisti Badlands, Northwestern New Mexico” by Dorothy Brooks (from the Read a Poet, Write a Poem workshop)

I told no one I was going, I remembered too late as sunset cast brooding shadows on the ancient sea of rock with hoodoos rising like carved cobras in the advancing shadows. Impossible to find, remote— spinner of mysteries, keeper of quiet, the vast expanse spoke its own tongue. No landmarks, I noted, easy to