Walking with You in the Town Where I Used to Live
Here is where the path flooded. Here is where I turned
back and found a new way to go. Where the redwing
blackbird clawed at my scalp. Where the hawk circled
the carved stones. Here is where I saw the dying
coyote, and here is where the petticoats of bluebells still grow.
Little crosses in the dogwood. Little mushrooms
seasoning the biscuits and gravy. You eat every salted crumb
I leave behind, and I teach you the frenzied flush
of crabapple, the tulip poplar’s mittened hands.
This is the time of year when I choose to return:
a dull, scabbed-over beauty in Midwestern spring,
trusted friend with hazel eyes. I barely knew
you when I lived here. We talked once about “The River.”
I played a prisoner in your scene. When we met—
sweltering room, a purple dress, it was so long ago.
Here is where bats shiver the darkening redbuds.
Here is where the woodpecker flutes his bug-hunting song.
I say wood instead of bud. Instead of red, you say
rose. Here are the winter pies baked in a strip mall.
Here is my sunburnt neck, your sunburnt nose.
Here are the free libraries painted like birdhouses
where anyone can open the chambers, take a book
from their hearts. Here is where we reach for each other
in the path and in the road—here and here
and here again. No one tells you when a river runs dry
or when it will overflow. No one tells you
who will be there when it does. At night, we walk back
to your apartment. Here is where our Pink Moon
rises beyond the exit ramp, not unlike the morning
sun. Yellow as a campfire, big as a home.
I thought it was a sign. It wasn’t. We don’t need one.
The Prayer Plant Speaks
I don’t hate myself. I’m just self-aware and open
a little too early for evening vespers. Who couldn’t use
more faith in any form? Sunset glares the same golden
light as a salt lamp clicked on. Your tomes refuse
to become embers. By nightfall, I ache but rarely bloom.
New World tropics don’t do it for everyone unless
you’re unburdened by diurnal rhythms or heirlooms
of clandestine purple. Gaze upon my glowing dress,
ever spooled and spiraled. Trail my creeping rootstock
back to where I first learned the definition of grace
and how it always seemed like blackmail. I can’t talk
about unmerited favor without my leaves bracing
for close. How holy am I, to move without wind?
I am action, I am verb: I unfurl, I rise, I bless and sin.
Anne Barngrover‘s most recent poetry collection, Brazen Creature, was published with The University of Akron Press in 2018 and was a finalist for the 2019 Ohioana Award for Poetry. She is an assistant professor of English and Creative Writing at Saint Leo University, where she is on faculty in the low-residency MA program in Creative Writing, and lives in Tampa, Florida. Instagram: annebarngrover Twitter: Anne_Barngrover
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