Last time I saw her—no kidding—
she was descending from a beat-up
Winnebago in the Sandhills just north
of Hyannis, Nebraska, wearing blue,
like always, except now
it’s a wind-bleached denim sundress.
And this time there’s no halo
except around everything
in her vicinity: the kids pulling fish
from the river, the fish themselves—
their fins like pearly wings—
the vials of wild plum wine
someone has left in the shallows,
cooling. The cooing pair
of doves pecking at pebbles.
And when she shakes your hand
it too starts glowing, not
so you can see it, but so you know
finally how good it is
to have a palm and fingers.
And all you want to do is
spread that sheen on everything
you can get your hands on,
to make it feel
like it’s just been washed
in brightest water
as though it is a fish
that dreamed itself
into an angel.
From I Call to You from Time, (Wipf & Stock, 2019). Posted by kind permission of the poet.
I grew up in a family that did not tell the story. I am listening…
a body is always a body individual or collective (whole or in many pieces) alive…
Let plain things please you again and every ordinary Monday. Bean soup in a white…
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