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Deborah Finch


Albuquerque, NM, US

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Gypsy's Photo Gallery



Deborah Finch

Note the dark, suggestive shape
just behind the Sasquatch.

It is a snapshot of my essence
making off on four long legs.

Extinction of the Passenger Pigeon


Deborah Finch

On Wisconsin corn fields,
unexplaines shadows flock and swirl
like flotsam in a whirlpool of seawind.

Gradually the dark spots curl into smoke
and rise in a chain of gray, winged ghsots.

I close my eyes; pin birds to the sky.
It is 1914. A pigeon dies.

Early Man


Deborah Finch

When minds were caverns that witched and shrilled
to every graze of dark, webbed wing,
thrill of moon-tongue, swish of thing;

when dreams were wordless, whirlwish rivers
that wound and echoed through nights underground --

Then Man was a rough-winged flush of springtime
who caught at leaves with a secret cry;

thoughts were a hurled wind carved onto walls then,
wrung from the currents of clean, flood streams.



Deborah Finch

I like MEN!
I like the men
who jump out
of their skin
when I walk up
behind their backs,
and they keep on shaking
their heads with a grin
while their friends
stop chatting
and stare at them.

I like the men
I supervise.
They surround me
like thick whale-fat,
keeping office chill out.
They hold my floods
in river banks,
checking the ebb
and flow of thought.
My storms fill
their reservoirs,
washing seedlings away.
I need their mental embrace.
They say their jobs
have depth
and circumference.

I like men
who are perpetually
tanned, they must be
Native American.
Their hearts listen to me
like owls hear mice,
gliding through wooded
dreams at night,
carrying the rustle
of running feet
away in a pouch
filled with amulets.
They dance at feasts
blessing spirits of earth,
chant rain from clouds,
grow hair long.

I like men
who are tall and thin
as my neighbor’s
July 4th flagpole,
and whose clothes
never really hang
quite right.
I like them inward
and shy
with caramel-corn eyes
that unthinkingly fix
on my face from a distance
while they discuss
theories of God
and the universe.

I like the men
who are Donald
and Mark.
I ripen for guys
into cleaved apricots
if they look or sound
like my brothers.
Give me Librans
with the rumpled
sweet look
of Donald
rubbing his glasses,
or Sagittarians
who sail the San Juans
searching for that
which is nameless.

I like men
who are Unitarians
with books that clutter
every ledge
like half-drunk beercans
at biologists’ potlucks,
or whose calm eyes
reach in
to unlatch the cage
where my wild soul
paces its corners.
With the courage
of early Christians,
they scratch my ears
and mane.