does your muse need to know?


How the tilt of his head brings to mind
the angle of the branch on the tree, or
the incisive slip of words onto my page?
The tree's branches wander up the sky or blow
down depending on the earth's spin.

My pen's ink wanders and doodles
like his beard's curl that day.
Sometimes, the sweat on his shoulder
is the thing that bears my ocean of words,
his squat the thesaurus I use to write my day.
His bicep is the measure, the ruler that aligns
my strophes, and meters ink, cartographs

every page I hold tight. I name him Atlas.

her menu of rejected items


one seamed run nylon
three green orchid leaves, pressed
a bent cigarette, never lit
one burned cork,
a chewed on pink pencil stub, still sharp
locked diary with no pages,
snapped guitar pick,
girdle hook and eye, black
smoothed cold igneous stone,
crumpled business card,

"are you a housewife?"

Like the dodo, and other extinct
creatures, those that utter this
question, are of a time gone.

There is no good
answer.  If you answer
in the affirmative,
then you are small
and unconsidered.
If you answer
in the negative,
you are small
and judgmental.

Breezes blow though
branches that don't shift,
ocean waves break
on a mighty beach,  
and clock hands still tick
on a fixed clock.


Vicky MacDonald Harris was born in Windsor, Ontario, where she received her BA in English Literature, but now calls Lincoln, Nebraska home.  In print, her poems have been published in the NaPoChapBook collection published by Big Game Books, The Lincoln Underground.  Online she has poems at Poets and Artists, Hobble Creek Review, the24project and in Women Poets Wearing Sweatpants Tumblr.  She’s had one short story published in Return to Deathlehem: An Anthology of Holiday Horrors.  She blogs at when she isn’t finding time to work on revisions on her first novel.