Penelope Weiss


In the Garden

He asked me to pick some oregano for the moussaka.
I wasn’t sure what was oregano and what was weed.

I smelled it. It seemed like oregano.
Still, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps its faintness

was an allusion to a fragrance I remembered
from the last time he asked me to pick a special herb for dinner.

I came in with a basketful. He chopped it up.
I danced a little jig under the pear tree.



I Don’t Think Much

It was snowing hard. We walked over to the pond and the finches.
“I don’t think much of humanity,” she said. 

The snow was falling harder. We kissed goodbye.
“I don’t think much,” I said as she got in her car and drove away.

I slammed the front door and kicked off my boots.
“I don’t think much,” I said as I stumbled into the kitchen.

I drank six cold beers without stopping.
“I don’t think much” I said before I passed out.



Driving at Night

Trees hallucinate my vision 
as I drive through the wooded roads at night.

The great trees strike a vein in my memory.
I feel their blood transfusing into me. 

There is no sound, only my headlights 
and the illuminated manuscript of life.



Penelope Weiss grew up in New York City and now lives in Shrewsbury, Vermont. Storiana, 
her collection of stories, was published by Casa de Snapdragon Publishing and is available 
on Amazon.
 
 

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