New poetry: Angele Ellis

cabildoquarterly:

GRAY WILLOW

It starts in bud, the false willow,
tender as the babies the tomcat got.

He lined them up on my doorstep
like toy soldiers, throats slashed.

Because they were so tiny,
I thought of paper cuts, insult’s welling sting.

I put them in a paper sack for drowning
down the black well of…