Poems by Sally Molini

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by Sally Molini

From Canary Fall 2014

Sally lives and writes near Heron Haven, a spring-fed wetlands sanctuary and one of the last ox-bow wetlands of Big Papillion Creek.

no more, if I had to
dispatch the creature or watch
someone else transform a chicken
into anonymous shrink-wrapped meat,

for dinner whole legs roasted with baby
Yukons, mushrooms and onions.
My TV tray all set as I tell Planet Earth
predators to stop chasing the caribou

and eat something leafy, as if they could
ignore the nature they’re driven by
on this sextillion-ton
self-absorbed orbit that feeds on itself,

nestled in its little cosmic spot,
doing the same things over and over.
At least I refuse to pick banded lobsters
from a tank, recalling the words of a monk

I know: the connection to the animal is less
when bought at a supermarket.
What earthling doesn’t want a happy life,
so many waiting in cages, pens, and corrals,

forkfuls of a bird I never knew
lifted to mouth as the grind
continues, the human mind as usual
feeding itself reasons.

Leaf Glossolalia

by Sally Molini

From Canary Summer 2014

I've listened and taken
notes, the rustle and hiss
can't be nonsense,
so many tongues for anyone
to hear -- pinnate, whorled, elliptic,
lobed, their meaning lost
on humans. Birds could translate
but don't have time for all the trees
whispering their summer
plans and heartwood stories,
lamina-lisped dialects
of maple, willow and ash,
dry sighs from a birch copse,
the linden's slow foliole
phasia, scots pine forest
a blue-green buzz of reach
and light as each root
hurries to reap what's left.

Previously published in Tar River Poetry, Spring 2008

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