POEM | Ellen Bass
Hello Morning Little maple taking shape against my window, night’s dark gauze falling from your limbs. Hello bird whose name I don’t know. Wing feathers louvering open, first light shining through as they lift. And curled tea leaves sleeping in your tin. There you are, my dead mother in your red lacquer frame. You once carried the sea home in a jar and held out a spoonful to me each day. And you baby chicks, peeping when I pull back the towel from your cage, pecking corn mash, sipping water, raising your beaks so the water slides down your throats. The Times folded in the driveway, The Dow breaking 16,000. Minimum wage at $7.25. In China, minks and foxes are skinned alive. An artist has sculpted them in clay— sticking in a needle for each hair.
Raleigh Review | 65
