She spun common moments into repertoire. He chided her on what she'd made, kept worshipping the tidy confines of his sphere. He looked down on young miracles. She spoke with feeling in smooth lines. He pudged in presence of her leanness. Lived a cramped fear of demotion, while contributing to resilient mediocrity. He thought the world could live alone, though he was not beyond being its child.
Semitones, a sour, indented reach touring the heart for space
He remains somebody's reason not to die. Summer needs to be sworn-off, and yet recurs with dearth of ease. There is still light enough to cover what resists repair. I see him anymore, crushed life, as though the coming birthday is a story of his parenting, confined to the cold storage.
Words instead of flesh, broadcast where touch would be
Start as though no finish will occur. Scrub away the ruse for focus on affordable small tales the color yarn. Emotion has a place equivalent to posted vacancy. Inform the hearers you intend to stay taut within earshot. Evoke the feeling of a mind made shadow-tall from light potentially reflected. Present focus gleans belief in each invented self, revealed along fictitious avenues.
Scrapbook turned to powder between fingers
Sheila Murphy's most recent book publications are visual poetry collaborations: Yes It Is (with John M. Bennett, Luna Bisonte Prods., 2014) and 2 Juries + 2 Storeys = 4 Stories Toujours (with K.S. Ernst, Xexoxial Editions, 2013). Murphy has lived in Phoenix, Arizona throughout her adult life. She is an executive, poet, visual poet, and educator. Until she was 18 years of age, she was known exclusively as a flautist.
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