Denise R. Weuve


A jilted lover
counts her wrongs
right to left,
a Chinese scroll hung
on a bedroom wall
as a reminder that everyday can
not be cherry blossom trees
and origami cranes,
because there will be days
when feet are bound
and the first born

July Fourth

I’m the kind of girl
that falls for all that sparkles,
even when it’s burning my fingertips,
and you leave
repeating aerials, and rockets
in your wake—
fireworks that fizzle
before they hit the ground.


Denise R. Weuve has a Pushcart nomination, and publication in fancy magazines, but her cat still eats her printed poems and spits them out on the carpet beneath her desk.