Edited by Andrea Spofford | Amy Wright | Barry Kitterman
Late turned to early when the mail
slipped under the door,
a tiny crease of lemony light
covered, then revealed.
Those pebble steps.
Somehow the tea cooled.
You called it the colonizer’s drink,
and I put my hands over my ears,
I said, to warm them.
When the heat turned off, we knew
it was spring again. The marigold
splashed itself into the hallway,
despite our protests.
I placed a petal in the oval
of your chest
but your body had grown
out of my stretch.
A mailman’s thumb.
Smudged return address.
All of it, morphing
without our consent. No wonder
I run to chapels in the troughs
fumbling like any accidental supplicant,
whose prayer is for a single lull
to stay and be.
NonfictionVerbal Binary Presence in Early Childhood Development, that Infamously Difficult Poetic Form the Villanelle, and the Spiritual Quotidian
In the womb it’s neither no nor yes.
You do, however, gather physical strength. You are, however, unprepared for the binary presence that awaits you on the shores of the amniotic sea in which you swim.continue reading >