Three and a Half Years After Her Death
If I wring
my hair and she
wrought my lasagna,
my wrinkle, my
narrative arc—
even showering I’m borne
by her however-gone twinkle.
If you say twee, I’ll reveal
our old yard, a quarter acre
of crabgrass and dandelions.
I wring away water
and loiter in the steam.
Post-Apocalypse Village Idiom (1)
Here, she says, you hazard,
you stalk the knife.
A mother says it first,
knows in spite of the
adolescent shrug
the whiskey-strong words
have been licked,
unwitting lollypop.
You might reckon,
she says, no one can live
on a blade’s edge,
but some try, she says:
some stalk the knife.
Kingfisher Hide
You could weigh
this silence, if only
you could lift it.
The weight of wait.
Two photographers lean into
their cameras; foot-long
lenses make for
Pinocchio-like noses.
Yes, sometimes wait
leads to whimsy.
One electric glimpse
would be all.
_________
Carrie Etter grew up in Normal, Illinois, lived in southern California for thirteen years, and has now lived in England for nineteen. Her fourth collection is The Weather in Normal (UK: Seren; US: Station Hill, 2018), a Poetry Book Society Recommendation. She's online at @Carrie_Etter and https://carrieetter.com.
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