We save them—Pack n Play, fancy
hiking carrier with removable sunbrella,
crunchy mama cloth diaper covers
patterned with leaves and clouds. But
now that closet space is needed for grief.
Once our bodies achieve greatness,
we assume they’ll achieve it
again and again.
Biology is a trickster though,
the coyote lurking in our marrow,
deciding our fate through slight of hand, or slight of cell.
The lesson seems to be take nothing for granted,
but what’s being taken here is creation.
Our instinct is to preserve that
which has been stolen. Put it in a Mason jar, pickled, immune
from rot and aging. Store it in a cool and dark place,
high on an empty closet shelf.
Do you hear that? They're replying.
Do you hear that? They’re replying.
He took me out, naked
the trees stood, erect & bristling
at the January night,
eavesdropping as we communed
with the owls. He taught me the difference
between barn & horned, a screech & a bark.
Amid benumbed branches, we bloomed
that winter with numberless
goldenrod eyes looking on.
Just beyond the hill, forage:
bilberry, borage, wild
yam, bloodroot. Suckle: honey-
suckle, your restless young. Stick:
thistles in your patch
pockets til they’re brimming with white
willow bark. Invite: the black
widow, sewing her eggs near the hen of the woods,
She’ll teach you to brew
& spin periwinkle strands that tempt
both fate & food. Concoct:
sweetgum balls & fatback from heritage
return to poetry home