Diane K. Martin
Diane K. Martin lives in western Sonoma County, California. Her work has appeared in American Poetry Review, diode, Field, Harvard Review, Narrative, Plume and many other journals and anthologies. A poem was awarded second place in the Nimrod / Hardman Pablo Neruda Prize, judged by B.H. Fairchild. Another poem received a Pushcart Special Mention, and yet another won first prize from the journal Smartish Pace. Her first book, Conjugated Visits, a National Poetry Series finalist, was published by Dream Horse Press. Her second collection, Hue & Cry, was published by MadHat Press.
Colored Entrance
She doesn’t look like a servant
or like Cinderella at the ball—
she needs no prince. It’s a Saturday
matinee, and she’s a first-class lady,
setting an example for Shirley,
who wears her bobby sox Sunday best.
Miss Wilson’s got neat curls,
clip-on earrings that match her purse,
pumps with kitten heels, and a dress
the palest blue bouffant swirl.
But this perfection is spoiled—
why didn’t Gordon tell her?
—by, fallen on her bare brown arm,
the nylon strap of her slip.
Ashes / Dust
Suddenly, I wanted to stroke your cheek,
to pass my hand across its dry hollows;
then I remembered how long forever is.
When you died, we were grateful to be
done with the dying—which began
way before the Mesozoic and continued
through sediment and upheaval. And
you seemed ready to see it through,
though you might not have realized this
change of address would be your last.
Your son keeps your spice rack as you
left it, the herbs and spices now dust.
Dad keeps the urn’s cabinet door open
to bully your ashes where they rest.
I am the cheerful alien in death’s house,
reporting back from the front. As usual,
I have nothing but words. And how it
goes with you, there’s no telling.
