Sally Rosen Kindred1.
Here is your dirty swan, your field of stones,
the yellow grass-edge where your shoes would be
dragging, if you could come with me
up Mrs. Nelson’s drive
to take back the fists of quartz you stole
from her side yard
and be sorry.
is plastic, and your own. It can stay
in a pocket.
Here are your jays, their ashy wings
rising crooked, rising
anyway from the sapphire nests you imagine,
their rage exhalations—
Here are the ghosts of Tallwood Drive,
branch-drenched in their smoke-blue skirts—
night-rags of mist, your lovelies
drifting through the alder trunks
calling the mouths down from the trees.
And a doll, on an alder stump:
this should be your body.
It can’t remember me—
I’m the woman. I came after.
The sky is not an altar.
The sky’s a throat: see how it rolls
the day’s white ache.
We’ll climb the hill to… Read more »