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Featured Reader

Jacki Rigoni

Virtual Event on June 8th, 2021–6:00 P.M to 8:00 P.M.

Live stream available on our YouTube Channel!

Jacki Rigoni

Jacki Rigoni lives with her three children in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she serves as Poet Laureate of Belmont, California. She has a master’s degree in English from the University of California, Berkeley, and is a credentialed teacher. A finalist for the 2018 Francine Ringold Awards for New Writers, her poems appear in Nimrod International Journal, Moon City Review, anthologies, and permanent public art installations. Jacki writes on her site and facilitates courses for women at


I locked the door on Danger
each night until I found him lying

next to me, looking
exactly like Love.

Day forged black to gray
to flame until everything

blazed. Dust illuminated
like fairies. Daffodils in the yard

sprang from clay. The man
still slept, golden and harmless,

his fuzzy brown sweater
slumped on a chair.

How many numb nights I tugged
his cable-knit tighter around me,

when all along I could have shrugged
it to the floor for the orange cat to nap on

and shivered until morning. But
I didn’t see what I couldn’t see.

That’ll take some self-forgiveness.
Dawn crept in when it did,

one minute earlier than yesterday.
That was the only difference.

Now I walk with bare arms
into the buckeye-leafed spring,

where white flowers birth cherries,
where morning clears her crow throat.

Sunol Regional Wilderness Offers Lessons in Letting Go of What I Thought My Life Would Look Like

A woodpecker tidies acorns
in its tree-trunk pantry, stunting forests

that might have been. Still, the never-to-be
trees keep their place in our riparian conversation.

Everywhere along this muddy path,
the dead of winter is alive with acceptance.

Through organza mist curtains, toyon berries say welp, here is red.
In the greenlessness, turkey tail mushrooms say here is the expansiveness of brown.

Roots and rocks say here is our place
at the exact point a creek

says here is no struggle at all,
and tumbles a different curve.

In these woods, no straight lines. Everything built to change course.

Even the shortest day says here
is where we bend again toward light.