| Ideogram
one pagoda spoke
spikes green in grey light
amid the scent of orchids
intangible flesh of green plums
translucent and yellow
after he is gone
I trace his footprints
in the red road-dust
the temple is closed
but the butterfly sleeps still
a pearl dark
in a pale hollow
the red candle burns
the white boat is set asail
under the wings of an albatross
amid the bamboo
he said, “stop”
and I turned
above the horned city
stars jostle the curl of moon
long ago pure white pandas
dried their tears with sooty paws
and now look out of black eyes
I make up the bed-clothes
and shake him back into them
the new cricket, shaky
on intricate papery legs,
sings its folded song
Roses
In the winter hanging laundry
she remembered her father’s fingers
thick around thick glazed clay.
Slow stroke of wet cloth
the strop of steel on birch:
plastic clothespins break too easily.
She remembered in the winter
the slap of flesh on flesh, smashed
glass underfoot. Her father collected
the burning shards in a handkerchief,
brought her mother sweet tea and roses.
The Afternoon of White Juice
of itself, the perfect job
in late summer, paring a pear
difficult and green to gather
coming before the bells
of St. Peter’s sweet during
the afternoon of white juice
paring the pear is a job
in itself and difficult to do-
perfectly pare the white
sweet result of summer’s pearing
during the juice of the green
calling bells of St. Peter’s
gather the pared bells: St. Peter’s
in a green communion together
with the sweet pears –
a white and difficult perfection.
- Caitlyn C. Bergeron
Caitlyn's work has
appeared in Parnassus
LiteraryReview, Artisan, Fauquier Poetry Journal, and most recently, Dream
International Quarterly. She lives in Virginia. |
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