August 1, 2015


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.  <



                         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.

                                                   Flamingos of Gruissan

                                                         (February, 2012)
                                       Feather toes of winter
                                       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

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