An A.L.L. or Nothing Kinda Gal



Liz Foster



The Pumpkin Tide


The Pumpkin Tide


I saw thousands of pumpkins last night

come floating in on the tide,

bumping up against the rocks and

rolling up on the beaches;

it must be Halloween in the sea.


-Richard Brautigan

When You Know that You’re About to Let Somthing Go


After that night

a snow storm came and

Knocked the power out for a whole day and night.

I couldn’t leave the house.


It was lonely.


Mom and I had to heat up snow

so that we could flush the toilets

and boil water.

Two nights before then

I tried my hardest to get drunk

so that I could read my poems

in front of everyone.

I almost wish I hadn’t

because maybe then I would remember more of it.


Glass after glass

of my mom’s Lake Niagara wine I drank.


When I walked through the back door

of the coffee shop

I suddenly became aware

of how drunk I was.

Everyone was packed into one room

and all of their eyes

smelled the wine on me.



Liz Foster


The Light in the Kitchen



Last night Nancy read my cards to me.


I shuffled and noticed

the dozens of hats on the walls,

dust ridden

paintings of women unbuttoning

their shirts,

and an old snap shot

of the wise-eyed grandfather;

seeker of the soul

in a blade of grass,



The blue, cracked linoleum

under the kitchen light

possessed the loneliness

of deep oceans,



She flipped the cards over one by one

and now the words she said

will remain there forever;

in the dust,

in the eyes,

in the broken linoleum.

“It’s going to be a struggle.

All the saints are upside down

You can’t love everyone.

The path is there you just need to get the hell on it.

You must make it real.

Breathe for your own sake”.



Liz Foster





Hold me up to your ear

and listen for old ghosts who sing a murmured song.

Their comradeship will slip like glass marbles on linoleum

(the blue shooter; the owl’s eye of my heart)

through the spherical pink echo

of my hollow conch shell mind;

Once quick and housed secure,

Now quiet and longing for the sea.


Every chorus will scatter out of the ivory flesh,

and linger throughout empty mansions.

The windows closed and sealed will hum with its resonance.

Car doors slamming,

phones all the time ringing,

and ringing,

and never being answered.

Who of you will respond

in this barren shadow oven of a house

filled with death beds and pianos?


Throw my dusk shelled mind over board this ship,

with its mast of no color,

for another chance to house something keen

and living.

Amid the oceans of emerald prisms,

the ship will plod on

while the waves lap like dog tongues

licking away the salt logged frames

that buckle beneath the weight of a sea-sick crew.



Liz Foster