TORCH
I was born the day my mother stopped being pregnant
a full-baked warm wetness taking its first breath
flame flickering, a miniature torch; a moth fluttering
against the pane, the porch. She held: a curved moon-nail,
thistle-like lock, darkened milk; and the clarinetist curled
slow circles around the moon
WISH
the crack of eggs, the weight of flour, chocolate powder
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Your Life Is a Poem
In the new episode of ON BEING, " Your Life Is a Poem ," poet Naomi Shihab Nye talks about growing up in Ferguson, Missouri and o...
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