Journal of Writing & Environment

Each one is a winter wren in the hand,

a chrysanthemum at the lips.


Poppies on sun-clean hills,

warm sourdough.


Morning light with ave marias

in a cathedral cupola.


Mother, you speak and I sigh

the worst kind of sigh.


Here is the toothed bite,

the barbed catch.


We were each once girls

buoyant in saltwater,


our pearlescent bodies

cool as moon jellies.


Your breasts, then mine—

the light box, and the shadow