Love Letter
Against a windswept darkening sky,
against the geometric bite of power lines,
against the muddy brown field,
bracing itself for snow –
Four turning trees
write a love letter to the sky.
Red maple trees,
and oh!
red
red
maple.
Each crisp, bright leaf
snapping like the flags
of countries undiscovered,
and countries long gone.
Frankenheart
two wings discarded-
their multicolored feathers
glinting in mottled light,
their stumps still bloody and damp-
warm from the body of the missing bird.
I drop to my knees,
marvel at their oily sheen,
marvel at the intricacies of sinew
and bone.
shredded sinew.
shattered bone.
I gather the wings to my breast
and fly them home.
later, when you sleep, love,
when I carefully,
gently-
so you do not wake-
slice your chest
wide open
and pull your armor away
(wide
open)
I lean in to your overworked heart,
feel it beat against my cheek
like a bird.
My stitches are uneven
and ugly
but they are strong
the wings on either side of your heart
will hold.
they always hold.
I have given you
steely eyes
an iron spine
a rosebud mouth.
I have stitched stories into your skin.
and now
a heart with wings.
I sew you shut,
feel it flutter and heat
feel it beat against your chest-
a bright, caged thing,
and mine forever.
Farewell Goose
Thirteen geese fly in formation –
sharp, black curves
against a skim milk sky –
over the head of a boy on the ground.
The boy is denim blue against a fading green,
hair so yellow it gleams.
He raises his hands, waves,
calls out to the birds overhead.
But all I hear is the call of geese,
their voices cold, cold, cold,
and flying away.
Samuel Palmer, Harvest Moon, 1830s
“Harvest”
In autumn we make lists:
pumpkin soup and sweetened nuts;
tough winter greens; an armload of herbs drying at the hearth;
brussel sprouts, tubers, bright fleshed squash;
salted cheese curing in the basement;
casks of ale keeping cool underground.
We plan pies, freeze berries,
chant an endless litany of bread.
And you, my love, I shall feed and feed.
Here, I say as I seat you at my table.
Here, as I push in your chair.
Here is the bounty of the spinning world.
Here is food for the nose, food for the tongue,
food for the beating heart.
A seed placed in the earth becomes food – a miracle.
Food, gathered from gardens and heaped in kitchens
becomes palatable, irresistible – a narrative of pleasure.
And this is another miracle.
Love is a miracle, I say
as I slip roasted vegetables
into your open mouth,
as I lick the oil from my fingers.
Love is a miracle.
And so are you.
Kelly Barnhill 