I can see myself peeling
potatoes in the window, the light
split by the frame in an x
across my brow—we left
the Christmas wreath out
until Spring, and now a bird
has built a nest, Styrofoam
holly berries flank the twigs,
the thin beak of the baby.
How many times have our daughters
pounded through the door and upset
the balance of this world.
The driveway swamps,
what were twigs turn
into hollowed out ash trees,
thrust skeletal arms
chewed lifeless by the emerald ash borer,
serpentined out, all green and jeweled.
And there they are, our little
babies in the pond moss wetland
of the yard, all blonde amidst
the fallen limbs, the jagged lines
of timber. Sometimes the girls
scare a mother bird out of the nest
with their shouts, and she
is set adrift in this wasteland,
separated just as we are, by a door,
by a moment, by a slant
of light and shadow, by life
and death. By god.
We’re all just waiting to crack open
or be emptied out, to be forced
from our homes or windows,
to destroy what we love
because we need it,
because we think
we’re safe.
Sara Moore Wagner lives in West Chester, OH with her husband and three small children. She is the recipient of a 2019 Sustainable Arts Foundation award, and the author of the chapbook Hooked Through (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals including Beloit Poetry Journal, Third Coast, Waxwing, The Cincinnati Review, and Nimrod, among others. She has been multiple times nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and Best of the Net. Find her at www.saramoorewagner.com.
Photo by Dawn Endico on Foter.com / CC BY-SA