Tamara Madison

Tamara Madison is the author of the chapbooks The Belly Remembers (Pearl Editions) and Along the Fault Line (Picture Show Press), and three full-length volumes of poetry, Wild Domestic and Moraine (Pearl Editions) and Morpheus Dips His Oar (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). Her work has appeared in Chiron Review, Rat’s Ass Review, the Writer’s Almanac, Sheila-Na-Gig, Worcester Review and many other publications. She is a swimmer and a dog lover. More about Tamara can be found at tamaramadisonpoetry.com.

$16.00

Dining Alone

I am alone in the home I have made
for myself now that the kids have flown
and I’ve kicked two mates from my nest.
At last, the TV sits silent under a blanket.

The wood spider rests alone in the
fulcrum of the wheel she has spent her
morning building in the hazy October
light of my garden.

My rooms are quiet; I expect no guests.
October sunlight glances through the shutters.
From my table I can watch the web sway
with autumn’s slightest breath.

The spider waits for guests to arrive
with sustenance. It is peaceful
in the web she’s strung between
the slender boughs of the currant bush.

A guest arrives to the spider; she hurries
down her gossamer hallway to embrace
the visitor. Nevertheless, the spider
dines alone.

I make a meal for myself, an experiment
I would never inflict upon a guest.
It pleases me to say,
I haven’t spoken a word all day.

Single Life

In the afternoon I pick herbs and beans,
go inside to do yoga. No one in the house.
I put on jazz, take my shirt off, my jeans,
socks, underpants. The light outside
is turning gold with sunset near. I run
my fingers through my hair, my hands
over my arms, sides, breasts, neck,
hips. I get in bed, make love with myself.
I love how my body feels to my hands,
how my hands feel to my body. Warm,
exact communication. Later, I say
Thank you, Sport, looking fondly
at my place on the bed. That was fun.
I get dressed, wink. I’m gonna cook you
something nice for dinner, I say,
and gently shut the door behind me.