Like A Star I’m just a little Russian girl, too small to be seen, too still to be spied, too watchful to be calm. Plucked off the slush-choked streets of old Moscow and hurried to a warmer, slightly brighter place, I learned to trust the men, their patient hands, the regular food. I’m just now three years on this tortured orb, and I cannot speak the words of men, but I can moan and I can whimper and I can make my needs known. And the serious men have been so light with me, scent of cucumbers and tea and fish and vodka on their exhalations, kneeling before me to…

Black Iron Mister Layton stood at the stove, staring At the sapphire circles of gas flame, Each tongue atop a yellow base, thinking. The heavy bowl of flour and cornmeal sat At his elbow, a miniature desert valley Full of grains and grooves and dunes, waiting To transform what he would offer. His old Arm trembled when he swung black iron Across and set it on the closest eye. He tipped the can of grease and spilled a ribbon Onto the slick obsidian of the skillet. Then he turned and took a mug from the Cupboard, then reached again in patient measured Rhythm, a priest at his altar with his…

Comprehendest Thou This? Here, honey, I’ll let you out, I said, And twisted the knob and pushed the screen, and out Into the muggy twilight she went, tail Curved over her brindled back. Why Do you talk to it as if it understands You? he said, his face the same sneer As his entire stretch of decades of life Had been. I stabbed back with How do you know She doesn’t? Whatever bad smell he carried in his Nostrils seemed to worsen as he put His head to the side and hissed Every rational Person knows animals don’t comprehend Human speech. I met him with And where Did you learn…

To An Emaciated Squirrel I’ve never seen a skinny squirrel before But I can count your picket fence of ribs And pray that you find nourishment before Your young ones suffer in their leaf-lined cribs. ~ S.K. Orr

Unheeded By The Small Things The minute jewels gleam in the groove of the blade, climbed upon by tiny legs that neither displace nor diminish their shape nor beauty, and the rays pour down on the muted meadowscape, bringing heat and life, the ticking of an unseen clock driving the hours, hours unheeded by the small things, each of them precious in my sight, here on my site, in these days I have remaining, days in which I watch, bear witness, testify to ground-level majesty, days in which I catalog the singing joy of a life full of hours exchanged for these soft and secreted pleasures. These, my days. ~S.K.…

Mist Walk Beads of glass on wheel, Night-decked, steering towards dawn, Spun towards today. ~ S.K. Orr