First Tooth

Mother and Child by Mary Cassatt

First Tooth*

 

A poem shimmering forward

like the mirage of human form

awakens me from tattered sleep.

 

Before I’ve reached my pen,

she’s awake again and wailing.

 

The shard of bone gnawing

through her gum claws

closer to the surface, aching

to erupt. We rise, unrested.

 

When I lift her, she tries

to scale me like a mountain.

 

I make coffee while she

worries her toothlessness

like a splinter or a pebble in a shoe.

 

We maroon ourselves

on the living-room floor,

on an island of brief sunlight.

We won’t leave the house today.

 

Through steam-stained windows,

the naked trees are vague.

The sidewalks are phlegmy with ice.

 

Winter grinds its fist into the city.

 

Naptime – she refuses to sleep unheld.

My shoulders ache from stillness.

I search for the image that woke me.

I struggle to dredge the seed from memory,

urge it to burst its smooth skin,

to declare itself.

 

Her cheek against my breast is

firm and cool like rising bread.

 

She wakes again,

and wails her yearning for teeth.

 

I ease her down so I can

stretch the knots from my shoulders.

 

Light gathers in the tears on her lashes.

With a orphaned look,

she reaches for me, both arms up.

 

Her hands panic

like dizzy, breathless butterflies.

 

This is new, this reaching.

 

 

 

 

*Originally published in MotherVerse Magazine

Advertisements
First Tooth

APPROACHING LINDISFARNE*

Another old poem to appease the blog gods. I’m deep into the tenth revision on the novel, so old poetry shall have to sate. Thanks much to Suzi Ramsey Towsley for use of the smashing pic!

 

Courtesy SRT Images: www.SRTImages.com All rights reserved.
“True” Courtesy SRT Images: www.SRTImages.com
All rights reserved.

 

APPROACHING LINDISFARNE

 

born of sky so sharp it cuts itself

and bleeds pink-green light

on coasts of frosted shoal

on labyrinths of ice and stone

they emerge from fog

 

air hisses across their skin

keeping breath with the oars

muscles tighten   reach

creak of leather   wood

the ocean’s bearing

shoulders narrow   broaden   narrow

closing in   they slow

slither-slow and cease

 

they drift

 

silence holds the sky

above conspiracies of wind

hushing pines along the shore

 

they wait   oars aloft

the ocean trembles

 

smoke trickles from the horizon

seeps into a gloaming sky

steel stirs against their thighs

 

their oars   fin-faithful

sink then surface

fast falling   drum steady

rise gleaming   dripping silver

 

plunge toward shore

 

 

 

 

*First published in Cirque, Dec 20 2010

 

APPROACHING LINDISFARNE*