Carol Frith


With her husband, Laverne, Carol co-edits Ekphrasis. She has a “Special Mention” in the 2003 Pushcart Anthology; previous chapbooks from Medicinal Purposes, Bacchae, Palanquin, & Finishing Line; and a full-length collection from David Robert Books (two for a journey), due out in 2010. Her poems have appeared in Seattle Review, POEM, MacGuffin, Measure, etc. Her chapbook from Rattlesnake Press (2009) is entitled The Thread of Dreams.




Carol Frith Poems

Cheap Glass

So many trees: you and I remember this.
Privet, live oak, the air like cheap glass:
it wavers but will not shatter.

Someone is playing a guitar. I can hear
it. Is it a guitar? First Street. I ask you
for a day lily. You find hedge roses

at two PM, while I’m reciting Conrad.
You interrupt me, pick up random
oak leaves from the street. It’s very

warm: light after red light and scrambled
traffic patterns in the crosswalks.
We’ll stop at Henry’s for a drink. It’s

too early for gin, you tell me. For coffee,
then. We used to go to Henry’s often,
years ago. The street is hot and dusty.

I want to remember flowers. You tell me
you are looking for a day lily. Hedge roses
are everywhere. Not so many lilies.


We predict each other’s words, and then
again, perhaps we don’t. It’s possible
you’ll read to me: something abstract, full
of words I’ll truly wish were mine. When
you’re finished, close your eyes. I’ll count to ten.
Your words are more or less binomial--
divisions and subtractions. Contextual,
you try to tell me, handing me your pen.
I take it and begin to write myself
across the margin, an emendation while
you wait--something you might want restored.
You put a word or two back on the shelf.
I count the wide-eyed nouns; they make me smile.
You measure me for verbs because you’re bored.














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