{"id":1860,"date":"2026-08-30T01:45:39","date_gmt":"2026-08-30T05:45:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/alphabetbox.com\/submissions\/?page_id=1860"},"modified":"2026-08-30T19:06:55","modified_gmt":"2026-08-30T23:06:55","slug":"issue-9-carole-greenfield","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/alphabetbox.com\/submissions\/","title":{"rendered":"Issue 9… Carole Greenfield"},"content":{"rendered":"
Four poems by Carole Greenfield<\/h5>\n

\"A<\/p>\n

How I Know He Loves Me<\/span><\/h6>\n

My husband cleaned the upstairs bathroom last night. Spent more time <\/span>scrubbing<\/span><\/p>\n

out the bathtub and cleaning the toilet than the housekeepers we used<\/span><\/p>\n

to employ <\/span>took to clean our entire house. That’s how thorough he is.<\/span><\/p>\n

No one else takes a toilet seat off its hinges to get in where odors lurk.<\/span><\/p>\n

He scraped round beneath the rim, dipped the entire seat under water<\/span><\/p>\n

flowing from the bathtub faucet, rinsed down the bathtub yet again.<\/span><\/p>\n

When he was finally, finally satisfied, he called me in, proudly, to display<\/span><\/p>\n

his work, actually gleaming. He was naked from the waist down,<\/span><\/p>\n

and I could not help admiring what I have known and loved<\/span><\/p>\n

all the years we have been together, what still feels so lovely and yes,<\/span><\/p>\n

even gorgeous, in my hands and in my mouth, what I cradle in my palms<\/span><\/p>\n

as tenderly as I would anything more precious than my own life<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Directions to Their First (and Last) House
\n<\/span><\/span>after Juan Felipe Herrera<\/em><\/h6>\n

Drive down
\nthe interstate
\nuntil you see\"A
\nnothing but
\ntobacco fields.<\/span><\/p>\n

Take a right
\nonto the one street with houses.
\n<\/span>Go into the first one on the corner.<\/span><\/p>\n

Run your hand up and over
\nthe chewed-up doorjamb,
\n<\/span>gnawed by their Boston Terrier
\nin his desperate loneliness
\n<\/span>during working hours.<\/span><\/p>\n

Watch the husband and wife drive off
\nin opposite directions <\/span>100 miles each day,
\ntraveling away from each other in ways
\n<\/span>not traceable on maps or roads.<\/span><\/p>\n

Walk through rooms where they tried
\nnot to hurt each other,
\n<\/span>where he gave up and silently threw
\npairs of balled-up socks at her
\n<\/span>until she told him in a whisper to stop,
\nplease stop.<\/span><\/p>\n

Adolescence Overseas<\/span><\/h6>\n

eucalyptus leaves, sword-shaped
\nand blue-green astringent, <\/span>fringes
\nof auburn bark shredding in fingers<\/span><\/p>\n

that held yellow wheels of farmers’ cheese
\ngrated in thick slivers and dunked
\n<\/span>deep in strong coffee, resurfacing
\nstretchy, glistening<\/span><\/p>\n

while listening to opera in the small den
\nthat was my father’s, <\/span>one way to be close
\nto him in the hours he was home<\/span><\/p>\n

in the mountains we drove up, walked up,
\nlooked to from every point
\n<\/span>in every part of a city thousands of feet
\nabove sea level, <\/span>where fires burned dark-orange,<\/span><\/p>\n

nails lay in the streets and leafy branches
\n<\/span>were attached to car fenders to brush them away<\/span><\/p>\n

meanwhile, I climbed to the top
\nof a school building, considered jumping off,
\n<\/span>rather than live with desire like nails
\nscraping trails <\/span>across my silver-smoked heart,<\/span><\/p>\n

altitude-dizzy, arias <\/span>ascending and falling,
\nme with no broom.<\/span><\/p>\n

Temporary Angels<\/span><\/h6>\n

I love the cold that keeps snow
\nfrom melting, the ground
\nfrom showing its worn winter face.<\/span><\/p>\n

I don’t fear falling now, with all the drifts
\naround, not even with a recent diagnosis
\nin place.<\/span><\/p>\n

I will fall like an angel, arms raised high
\nto grace
\nthe brittle air with silent hosannas,
\nno sound<\/span><\/p>\n

beyond the sweep and rustle-scrape,
\nthat soft surround
\nof swaddled limbs a-swish in synchrony,
\nicy lace<\/span><\/p>\n

of rhythms known since we inhabited
\nthe space
\nas temporary angels, come to earth
\nand yet unbound,<\/span><\/p>\n

blue-winged impressions pressed
\nto bless and leave a trace
\nbehind, reminders of worlds we lost,
\nthe love we somehow found.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"Two<\/p>\n

Carole Greenfield grew up in Bogot\u00e1<\/span><\/span><\/span>, Colombia and eventually returned to her birthplace in Massachusetts, United States. Today, she teaches multilingual learners at a public elementary school. During her journey, she has also guided and encouraged the homeless in North Carolina, to write about their experiences, to express their voices and be heard.<\/span><\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Her poetry and essays have appeared in Still Point Arts Quarterly<\/a>, <\/span>The Plentitudes<\/span><\/a><\/span>, Amethyst Review and other publications.\"Weathering<\/span><\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Carole’s first book of poetry — Weathering Agents<\/span> — is published and available from Beltway Editions<\/a><\/span>, and may also be bought from Brookline Booksmith<\/span><\/span><\/a> <\/span>and Amazon<\/a>.<\/span> <\/span><\/em>Autographed copies are available on her website… http:\/\/www.fieldsofgreen.us\/carole\/books<\/a><\/span><\/span><\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Read the Alphabet Box interview with Carole Greenfield by clicking here<\/span><\/a><\/span>.<\/span><\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

Photo credits: Alphabet Box thanks Mike Greenfield and Carole Greenfield for the family photos they provided for this issue.<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Like? Share!<\/h6>