Two Poems by Terri Lee McCord

by Terri Lee McCord

Card: to check the age 

of someone who wants 

to drink alcohol legally, 

a type of shark that wins, 

a kind of old-fashioned 

greeting with the cursive 

writing message, a cross-out 

of a misspelled word and, 

you swear, the scent of a 

cologne no longer for sale, 

the smell, too, of powder  

a piece of plastic that renders  

debt, a house made of several  

of these that waits for 

the slightest wind, fortunes 

spread out and read by a teller, 

a stiff pasteboard for printing 

or simply a type of fabric that 

cleans textile fibers with wire 

teeth or the way an 

expert burglar can break in 

without any real damage

The solstice light

bright and radiant

as hundreds

of communion candles

a photographer’s dream

landscape and sky

photogenic of the end

at shortening days.

The coffee filter-cut

snowflakes,

each original, individual,

taped to the window glass,

create long shadows

on the unswept

hardwood floor.