October 8, 2009

Carolyn Srygley-Moore

Commence with a Flower

Commence with a flower, imperfect, red
or the motion of mountains
by virtue of lightplay, shadow, the snow falling
or the grasses, river grasses, dying
as the boat forces its wake:

or his eyeglasses, balanced on the bedside table
with a bent arm
(I watch his eyes change behind them, all day long
a blink, a wink
held in the hot crease of my hand
as if clearing the old leaf-stains
making room).

All of it, as the oak resists the wind
& flails, against the wind
against strangers come with hammers inverted
to take the treehouse down, nail by nail...
voluptuous branches, memories
unripe pears, global, erotica:

& beside the shed, an upturned wheelbarrow, blue
an unused shed, dirty walls of vinyl, blue again
(the voluptuous memory of you
who do not remember
the space between heartbeats
wherein our lovemaking occurred)

& one must end in the blaze of the flower, scarlet
petals torn / whipping the wind.


Carolyn Srygley-Moore lives in Upstate New York with her husband and daughter. Her work has appeared widely in journals to include Antioch, Mimesis, The Pennsylvania Review, and the antiwar anthology, Cost of Freedom. She is a Pushcart nominee and her digital chapbook, Enough Light on the Dogwood, is available here.

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