In rain we miss the shadblow and sumac, wide hemlock damask and warped in its own silver balding, the way babies of Franco’s nuns must have not died in their swaddle cloths in the Spanish enclave of Melilla in Morocco where infants were harvested like cork oak, or slate beneath virgin’s bower. Like any mother I wait in the green, slaked by nothing but the visible architecture of distant November, sounds from the throat that are holy, tiny granite lips returning.
With our lips, with a clearer custody of our eyes, I say we end the long sentence here with the daffodil on the stone joints of newborns. The blue details of perfection are but plain camp robbers come forth for mixed seed. Both in fable and fact there is a rock in every landscape. This is a common, common field. I am only the sackcloth of a mother.
A Way of Making April
Wet dawn. Loose, self-portrait wind. Snowmen with mosquitos and carrots. Trying for a custody of the eyes and failing. I’ve chased green stars around Spanish clinics, green thunderclouds into the whole absorption of bitters. This is an apology in the middle of a field of soaking barley. Umbrage of nuns and nurses in the dove-caught arches of April. If it has taken me this long to find the newborns’ flexed tendons, if a condition of the heart is weighted descent, I am sorry. We are abandoned even if we remember the blackbirds.
Kimberly Burwick was born and raised in Massachusetts. Burwick earned her BA in literature from the University of Wisconsin, Madison and her MFA in poetry from Antioch University Los Angeles. She is the author of four collections of poetry: Has No Kinsmen (Red Hen Press, 2006), Horses in the Cathedral, winner of the Robert Dana Prize (Anhinga Press, 2011), Good Night Brother, winner of the Burnside Review Prize (Burnside Review Press, 2014), and Custody of the Eyes (forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon University Press). She is currently Clinical Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Washington State University.
Photo of forest clearing in rain courtesy Pixabay.