Ann Townsend Poems

After our love, I lie in the shadow of your shoulder
and drift to the sound of the seventeen-year locusts outside,
their lonely tenor buzz that rises and falls together
and as suddenly stops, and flares out again.
...

What a fine package
you've come wrapped in.
A swathing of hospital cotton,
...

I'm looking at the intersection
of thigh and cloth,
oh at you,
where, caught in sunlight,
...

he called me twice, filled the line
with his particular human sound,
irritating, yes, and meaningless
...

The old bridle hanging from a hook
in the new barn.
Its seams frosted with mildew
from the rain.
...