Cindy Bousquet Harris is a poet and a licensed marriage and family 
therapist. Her poetry has appeared online and in print journals 
including The San Diego Poetry Annual, In the Mist, and Spectrum 
Magazine. Born and raised in the Midwest, she now lives in southern 
California with her husband and their children.  <cmbharris@netzero.net
  
  
                                                   Flamingos of Gruissan
                                        
~Cindy Bousquet Harris
                         Serengeti Tangent
                         Forgive this Serengeti tangent,
                         crackered, bruised,
                         forging through the bush,
                         infinity nestled in granola bars
                         and all the bother 
                         wrapped in tissue, old magazines 
                         and batteries that might 
                         still work;
                         hordes of wildebeest migrate
                         through my closet, 
                         snorting, stomping, 
                         endanger the delicate balance 
                         of well-hidden gifts,
                         crowd the banks, precarious, 
                         risk the crocodile,
                         to quench their thirst.
                                                          (February, 2012)
                                        Feather toes of winter 
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| Flamingos | 
                                        laced around them as they slept                                        les flamants roses 
                                        the pink and curve 
                                        of them cold-wrapped
                                        in darkness, too trussed-up 
                                        with dream snares to notice 
                                        water start to growl, 
                                        to squeeze and breathe 
                                        frost tentacles,
                                        silent, soft convulsions 
                                        gelled the haven 
                                        to their feet; 
                                        those that woke, 
                                        too weak 
                                        to wrest away from ice grip; 
                                        those that didn’t, 
                                        stiff, encased
                                        in frozen wing-shawls,
                                        stencils on the lake. 
~Cindy Bousquet Harris




