& after I stepped out under branches &
branches. Oh but it was strange to see them.
Then those acres of bristling brown.
Thorn-caught, I broke the skin of my palm,
wiped my hand across my crisp white shirt,
drew down to sit licked with sweat
on the moss. I walked into these lands
of my father, my mother. Her white house,
shrouded by mist. The moon rose
luminously where it should. Was I
expendable, my loss knocked back
then forgotten, like a shot?
Each return, a reckoning. Now,
the bathroom linoleum reminds me
only of itself: optimistic floral pattern
scrubbed thin. I bare my teeth,
floss, scrub my legs, wash off the clay.
Dress myself: striped t-shirt, soft jeans.
Crab-like, I edge toward the warm, yellow
kitchen, past the sleeping beds, the familiar
objects on the mantle. My sister clatters cream
into coffee. We breathe the lucky air
together, blood fluttering in our veins.
It is said I made mistakes, but what do I
need to explain? Too much to tell:
a miscarriage, the peach tree blown down,
war. & yes I will mourn, my mouth
an O of loss, but later, in the dark.
Poetry - ISSUE #27