Judith Tullis is the Treasurer of the Illinois State Poetry Society, Secretary of Poets & Patrons of Chicago, and is active in several other groups of poets and writers. Her many poems can be found online and in print. She lives in a small house with a large garden where poetry often happens.
Mules
Sure-footed Conchita
descends the mountain,
patient under pressure,
her back bowed
by hundred pound bags
of fragrant coffee beans
hand-picked by Juan Valdez.
Dark-eyed Manuela
avoids uniformed men,
boards a plane,
her stomach full
of cocaine condoms.
The job sustains her family,
destroys others.
Females,
placid or desperate,
beasts of burden
for Columbian exports
to satisfy the world’s appetites.
Kabul Dead End
A woman stands alone
covered head turned
to a crumbling wall
shoulders hunched
protecting a secret.
She takes something
from a drab cloth bag
maybe a cell phone
for a forbidden call
or a knife
weapon of honor
in defense or revenge
or, even more dangerous,
a book of poetry.
Soap Opera
Because the god of plumbing
had an argument with the god
of laundry appliances,
I met the morning with a mop
instead of hazelnut espresso.
Because of caffeine deficiency
and a wet floor, I shuffled
out the kitchen door, old clothesline
atop a basket of soggy clothes braced
on my right hip, weighty as the world,
oceans spilling down my leg
filling my shoe.
But isn’t it something to have shoes,
and the clean water is a bonus,
an entitlement taken for granted
in my kitchen where I sip coffee
and watch my boys’ bodiless
baseball uniforms run in the wind
stealing every base to home plate.