Pia Taavila-Borsheim grew up in Walled Lake, Michigan, and lives now in Fredericksburg, Virginia. She received a BA and an MA in American Literature from Eastern Michigan University (1977, 1979) and an interdisciplinary PhD (1985) from Michigan State University in English, Sociology, and Philosophy. She teaches literature and creative writing at Gallaudet University in Washington, DC. Gallaudet University Press published her collected poems, Moon on the Meadow (1977-2007); Finishing Line Press published her chapbook, Two Winters (2011). Her poems have appeared in many journals including: The Bear River Review, Appalachian Heritage, The Comstock Review, Threepenny Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, storySouth, The Asheville Poetry Review, 32 Poems, Measure, Ibbetson Street Review, and The Southern Review. She is a frequent participant at the Bear River, Sewanee and Key West Literary conferences.
When he struck that High Noon pose
to finger his six-shooters, itchy, I knew
right then there’d be no such thing as
meeting in the middle.
Right then I knew there’d be no such
thing as fingering his six-shooter, itchy
for that High Noon pose. Struck.
I wish I could write you
a love song on parchment paper,
blue ink applied with a quill.
I’d fold it in fourths,
leave it under your cup.
You’d find it hours later,
search for its author.
I’d fill your sky with little birds.
One would land on your shoulder
and sing to you all day.
I’d hold your toes like cotton socks
soft and heathery, the ones you pull on
before those wrinkled leather shoes.
As you walk here and there,
you’d feel me with you.
I wish to drop gold coins on you,
shimmering in mid-air,
turning in the sun like maple leaves.
You’d think yourself fortunate.
I wish I had the nerve to say,
Here I am.
Instead, I hide behind shy thoughts,
this feckless page.