Connecticut Cold
by Helen R. Peterson
freezing in April as if the state were cursed
flowers blooming only on my skirt.
.
.
wind picks up quickly, blowing jacket
back in a ballet of black fabric
dancing as church bells play:
.
.
‘Leaning on the Everlasting Arms’.
.
.
Curse My Luck, Not Born a Man
by Helen R. Peterson
.
In Virginia Beach
he and I would wake
from the same dream
of ripped surfer boys.
At the Jewish Mother Café,
we’d check out the waiters─
comparing notes, not holding hands.
An old waitress would always say
what a lovely couple we were.
He would never correct her,
but roll his eyes, our little joke.
In vain I would try
to steal his boyfriends,
the closest we would come
to a kiss.
