Monday, July 20, 2015

Atlas Poetica, Number 18, Summer 2014

Eleven Stones

Mother lies in a curtained hospital cell, a bloodstone on her tongue.
(she cradles the stone angel face of her infant daughter)

No one has time to feed her, and her gruel congeals into limestone.
(she carries fieldstones from dawning to dimming day)

She is intubated, tied to the bed, and my heavy heartstone sinks.
(she keens as hailstones grind the crops into dust)

Her tumbled thoughts are skipping stones, with neither echo nor ripple.
(she polishes the worrystone in her heart's torn pocket)

The cornerstone of her life has crumbled, but I am the one who falls.
(she is the hearthstone and the headstone)

she is 35
when her mother dies
and I am born
I am 35 when my mother dies
it takes 35 days for her to let go

Selkie Sisters

Three full maiden moons slipped into the darkling water—
selkie sisters astride galloping sea horses, their hands tangled
in spindrift manes . . .

with my sisters
washing moondust
from our hair
then braiding it with stars

Selkie Sisters was translated into Italian by Maristella Tagliaferro.

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