Betsy Sholl Poems

The child takes her first journey
through the inner blue world of her mother's body,
blue veins, blue eyes, frail petal lids.
...

Fog dense as a bed sheet hung at the window,
and through that white blindness come
the eerie cries of cows moaning in the field
...

He needs a bigger body, bull fiddle
to make that thump, that deeper pulse, he needs
...

Wharves with their warehouses sagging
on wooden slats, windows steamed up
and beaded with rain—it's a wonder
...

Well-dressed, demure, jammed into those
politely arranged desks, it's hard to be
serious, but we are. No one even parts lips
to acknowledge what used to drive us crazy
...

They call me Babe and make a kissing noise
from inside their bars and inside their rage.
Most of them are men, though they act like boys
...

You think you can handle these things:
sunlight glinting off a red Jaguar
honking at the old woman who has snagged
...

To stave off trouble, the old bluesmen are singing,
without a doubt, singing-on doorsteps, in bare yards
with folding chairs tipsy on tree roots. No tape rolling,
...

Bedraggled feathers like bonnets
that would fly off if they weren't strapped,
kazoo voiced, a chorus of crying dolphins
...

Nowhere to nest, to rest their heads,
like starlings scattered by gunshot—
...