Collection of Poetry

by Krista Blodgett


He says,

"I kind of love

dead trees;

There's something


about them."

I think "dead"

is a harsh adjective

for the last note of a song.

What is death,

but a measure of rest

before the next movement?

Stillness is never permanent,

but it is beautiful,

while it lasts.

Love Rinds

You accused me, once, of trying to romanticize poverty.


I brought candles and a bag of bologna sandwiches,

A gas station rose in a beer bottle

After your electricity was switched off.

I remarked how magnetic your copper eyes

In the dim light

Darling, romance is sometimes

The only thing poor people have

And I’ll be damned

If lack of money

Takes that from me, too.


I never knew my mother.

I don't mean that bullshit, 'we never got along' way.

I mean it like she abandoned me the day I was born.
I was club-footed and 2 months early.

I never got over it

And I've never been early, anywhere, since.


There is a bird

The cuckoo,

who leaves her eggs in other birds' nests.

Then absconds, cackling and sobbing in liberation.

My mother,

A human, left me with strangers

The day I was born.

I grew up in a nest

Obviously not mine.

About the Author


Krista Blodgett is a stay at home, the latest in a string of odd jobs including: dog groomer, EMT, dairy farmer, and medical receptionist.