My Winter Mother 2020-2021 by: J. Berry
BEFORE THE SNOW Did they ever tell you about the night the dish ran away with the spoon? The night she cast a blanket across the aether with the storm-struck feathers of migratory fowl And the cow jumped over the moon? We traversed empty freeways; burning bulbs cutting through the sticky pitch. And you spun tales about the bastard spoon. Sometimes you told us to pack all of our things and leave. And other times you’d fork the spoon, make us all mutineers. Did you ever want him to leave first? Did you want to live a life unfettered by dirty dishes and spoons? empty sink; winter house. THE FREEZING When times were good with the spoons and forks, I spun and spun and spun and spun. I crafted sun-to-set spindle-to-spool. Tribute blood to tips of every finger; red rivers born of my labor flowed through the backyardaround the trees; flooding underground systems of wiry root-wrought iron peat and loamy silt castles. I tried to build a home. Was I not industrious enough? When I drop the spindle in the river will you wish me away too?
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