|
Sparrow
(from Bede)
In the long cold winter the only warmth
was of
that hall yellow with firelight, smelling
of bread and men’s sweat.
Through which the sparrow flies window
to
window, dark night to cold night, a stitch
through the room’s heat.
And none within know where it came
from,
and none within know where it goes to.
But outside the winter is wider than
houses and the sparrow was
born in the wood.
In the night, winter wakes in a black
bough and opens his mouth
to take back his own.
Plum & Daughter
I’ve forgotten the number
of times I’ve
eaten
forbidden fruit.
The tree whose roots knot
pebbles, around the lost daughter,
the plum that winks out
at night
and breathes at morning—even now
does it bear purple fruit
with bitter skin?
The lost, the
let go. Breath comes
from those fruits, lives in the bodies
of strangers. Damp petals paper
flagstones pale pink.
You
must be careful of the numbers,
count how many
seeds and jewels you
take, count the trees that woke
with you
on cold mornings.
Copyright
© Michaela Kahn, 2007
Next writer
|
