THE LAST PAGE
When Annie’s bones could no longer
hold her body erect,
Walter carried their bed downstairs
near the window that overlooked the brook,
then slipped her softly between the sheets.
He opened Volume A of their encyclopedias
and they talked about aardvarks,
he leading the way with text,
she was whispering questions,
both pausing to watch the red fox
quenching his thirst at sundown.
After each day’s reading, Walter carefully folded
the corner of the page – all the way to dragonfly.
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it.
Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. - Chief Sealth
AT EITHER END OF THE WEB
She spins by moonlight,
weaving wet strands
from mailbox to brass knob,
binding my door shut with her silk.
Each morning I claw at the web,
unraveling her mending from the night
before. She watches from behind
a clapboard, waits for darkness.
What is this web to her
that she will not surrender
but patiently repair my damage?
Am I connected to its strands
like the crumpled moth trapped
in the sticky tangle in my hand,
or like a nightmare snared
in a dream-catcher? What is this thing
I rip apart – some kind of primitive
survival map whose language has been lost
to me? Just as her instinct is to claim
this space, mine is to tear down obstacles.
Neither of us will back down. One has to go,
be banished from this struggle over territory.
Perhaps this is the way all wars begin –
small battles fought in strands of gossamer.
EGGS
Blue veins
spread up the back of her hand
like a tree of life
as her fingers root in straw
gathering fresh eggs.
She moves slowly for it is almost autumn
and air inside the coop is stiff as quill.
Fat flies flog the hen house windows
and chicks incubated in her farmhouse kitchen,
hatched in a blizzard,
and christened with old family names,
have grown to earn their keep.
Tonight, while brooders roost
in straw, bent and matted to their shapes,
and the sun slides down the backside of the hill
like a bleeding yolk,
she will dream of fertile eggs
awakening within the sleeping fowl,
and deeper dream of foxes
who prowl and thieve inside her.
A morning sun surrounded by white clouds
will find her choosing names for the unborn –
those who will forego the empty nest
beneath her skin, as always –
opting for feathers.
EVERY LIVING THING
The worker at Casella’s dump
pockets my money, and heaves
my bag of wilted lettuce, chicken
bones, coffee grounds into the pile.
He’s seen me here before –
is comfortable confessing that he’s lost
his job, confiding that tomorrow he’ll be gone
just like the screaming crow he once found stuck
between his parlor-screen and window.
With flapping wings
he recreates the bird’s escape
once the unhinged screen
was yanked away.
He tilts his grizzled chin
like the muzzle of a gun
and aims his laughter
at the garbage-gulls who screech
for scraps, mimicking his gestures
with their whacking wings.
A long white feather falls between us.
He picks it up and rests it on his ear
as if it were a quill
he’d later dip in ink to write
important words of basic creature-needs –
food, shelter, someone to hear our cries.
IF THIS HOUSE WERE A WOMAN
she would combine
sharp corners
with smooth edges
and be sturdy –
her foundation settled
like everything pre-war
she’d squint at life
with the caution
of a peep-holed door
her hair would be gray
like the wispy fog of morning
that clings to roofs
and she’d wear a corsage
of window-box petunias
on her ample chest
as she marked time’s passage
with wreaths of pine
and faded flags
she’d dread the deep of winter
when moon-glow is the only rose
upon her pillow
and her tears freeze silent
like transparent thorns –
ice sculptures in the eaves
if this house were a woman
All Poetry © Copyright Regina Murray Brault. All rights reserved.
When Annie’s bones could no longer
hold her body erect,
Walter carried their bed downstairs
near the window that overlooked the brook,
then slipped her softly between the sheets.
He opened Volume A of their encyclopedias
and they talked about aardvarks,
he leading the way with text,
she was whispering questions,
both pausing to watch the red fox
quenching his thirst at sundown.
After each day’s reading, Walter carefully folded
the corner of the page – all the way to dragonfly.
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it.
Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. - Chief Sealth
AT EITHER END OF THE WEB
She spins by moonlight,
weaving wet strands
from mailbox to brass knob,
binding my door shut with her silk.
Each morning I claw at the web,
unraveling her mending from the night
before. She watches from behind
a clapboard, waits for darkness.
What is this web to her
that she will not surrender
but patiently repair my damage?
Am I connected to its strands
like the crumpled moth trapped
in the sticky tangle in my hand,
or like a nightmare snared
in a dream-catcher? What is this thing
I rip apart – some kind of primitive
survival map whose language has been lost
to me? Just as her instinct is to claim
this space, mine is to tear down obstacles.
Neither of us will back down. One has to go,
be banished from this struggle over territory.
Perhaps this is the way all wars begin –
small battles fought in strands of gossamer.
EGGS
Blue veins
spread up the back of her hand
like a tree of life
as her fingers root in straw
gathering fresh eggs.
She moves slowly for it is almost autumn
and air inside the coop is stiff as quill.
Fat flies flog the hen house windows
and chicks incubated in her farmhouse kitchen,
hatched in a blizzard,
and christened with old family names,
have grown to earn their keep.
Tonight, while brooders roost
in straw, bent and matted to their shapes,
and the sun slides down the backside of the hill
like a bleeding yolk,
she will dream of fertile eggs
awakening within the sleeping fowl,
and deeper dream of foxes
who prowl and thieve inside her.
A morning sun surrounded by white clouds
will find her choosing names for the unborn –
those who will forego the empty nest
beneath her skin, as always –
opting for feathers.
EVERY LIVING THING
The worker at Casella’s dump
pockets my money, and heaves
my bag of wilted lettuce, chicken
bones, coffee grounds into the pile.
He’s seen me here before –
is comfortable confessing that he’s lost
his job, confiding that tomorrow he’ll be gone
just like the screaming crow he once found stuck
between his parlor-screen and window.
With flapping wings
he recreates the bird’s escape
once the unhinged screen
was yanked away.
He tilts his grizzled chin
like the muzzle of a gun
and aims his laughter
at the garbage-gulls who screech
for scraps, mimicking his gestures
with their whacking wings.
A long white feather falls between us.
He picks it up and rests it on his ear
as if it were a quill
he’d later dip in ink to write
important words of basic creature-needs –
food, shelter, someone to hear our cries.
IF THIS HOUSE WERE A WOMAN
she would combine
sharp corners
with smooth edges
and be sturdy –
her foundation settled
like everything pre-war
she’d squint at life
with the caution
of a peep-holed door
her hair would be gray
like the wispy fog of morning
that clings to roofs
and she’d wear a corsage
of window-box petunias
on her ample chest
as she marked time’s passage
with wreaths of pine
and faded flags
she’d dread the deep of winter
when moon-glow is the only rose
upon her pillow
and her tears freeze silent
like transparent thorns –
ice sculptures in the eaves
if this house were a woman
All Poetry © Copyright Regina Murray Brault. All rights reserved.
| Regina Murray Brault |
| 2008 Creekwalker Poetry Prize Winner |
|
|
|
|
