The Interpreter

He translates me, reads words I never wrote
but might have meant. Sometimes it's hard to tell,
without a mirror, what expressions spell.

Down

Fat pigeons chirruped in the rafters, wild
as sleeping puppies. If I held the bread
just right they fluttered chortling down and filed
along my arm, plankwalkers. Feathers piled
against my neck, enough to buoy my head
if it slipped sideways on a tendon's thread.

Julie Carter

If you've any comment on these poems, Julie Carter would be pleased to hear from you.