All morning the brown birds in the tree— noise & bother over a nest. When I find
———————————————————————–—the folded form of dirt
———————————————————————–—brown bird on the drive
———————————————————————–—later I reach
———————————————————————–—for morning as if
———————————————————————–—it were a line thrown
———————————————————————–—from a dock
———————————————————————–—but I am drifting—
the bird chirp snagged in the wind of ticking hours. The end of the day—will not
———————————————————————–—end its spiral
———————————————————————–—descent to
———————————————————————–—another place—
———————————————————————–—call it a life or a death.
———————————————————————–—Doors sway
———————————————————————–—curtains ripple
———————————————————————–—over a window that
bends towards an unending place of worship—the sky in all its plentitude. Here.
———————————————————————–—I bear
———————————————————————–—a bowl of apricots
———————————————————————–—the color of sun.
———————————————————————–—Can’t remember when
———————————————————————–—I last spoke to You—
———————————————————————–—heard the wind
———————————————————————–—chime of You. I mourn
each hour as if it’s a bird buried beneath the blooming blue hydrangea. Grave-
———————————————————————–—ness. Yet the absence
———————————————————————–—of darkness.
———————————————————————–—A line of crows
———————————————————————–—watch over
———————————————————————–—the unending
———————————————————————–—glow as I grow
———————————————————————–—weary
in the sun’s mirror. If I could believe You—in You—I would
———————————————————————–—walk the long hollow
———————————————————————–—listen for wings
———————————————————————–—blindly I would.
———————————————————————–—Rather than lie
———————————————————————–—in a poppied meadow
———————————————————————–—undone by the sun—
———————————————————————–—& by desire
working its claws. Yet a nest’s— tender yield naked & blind waiting to wing
———————————————————————–—away before branches
———————————————————————–—bristle then blacken wither.
———————————————————————–—Weather
———————————————————————–—wanders past
———————————————————————–—disguised
———————————————————————–—as a friend—
———————————————————————–—as You.
Each extreme cawing from somewhere near— neighbors— now
———————————————————————–—the black birds
———————————————————————–—clamor the tree
———————————————————————–—& beneath
———————————————————————–—a rabbit’s
———————————————————————–—empty burrow.
———————————————————————–—O listen
———————————————————————–—can’t You smell
———————————————————————–—the howling Earth
its brutal mouth gaping— gasping— for the air— of You the error of— hope.

 

 

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Heidi Seaborn is executive editor of The Adroit Journal and winner of the 2022 Missouri Review Editors’ Prize in Poetry. She’s authored three award-winning books and chapbooks of poetry. Her recent work appears in Blackbird, Copper Nickel, Pleiades, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere.

 

 

Photo by Dmitry Bukhantsov on Unsplash