Caren Stuart

the silence he leaves makes a cry i cannot repeat

(after reading Mike James' "Sitting on the Back Porch, In Summer, At Dusk" in Portable Light)

In my waking the darkness of March this morning,
I stare into hearing the silence he has left.
The crippled dogwood in the front yard is gnarling.
Its bones are moaning the burden of folklore, the white
of the cross of its four-petaled blooms
stained with blood at the each of its nail holes,
its every eventual flowering a sacrifice
of withering, of shedding the silent
crown of thorns. Even in sleep's
many-layered denials, the scent
of its pollen settles into
the creases of my so many
deaf and dumb dreams.
This has nothing to do
with any kind
of salvation.

Considering

(after reading Mike James' "Theory of Flight" in Portable Light)

Thorns bloom from the blue rivers running

beneath the braids of flesh in the bends of my wrists.

You can't see their wicked.

I keep my hands          close         to my heart,

not folding - though I may be bluffing.

When I press palms and fingers together,

touch fingers to chin and nod and close eyes,

neither of us yesses     or knows         whether          

I am praying                or prey             or knot.

---

Caren Stuart lives in the wilds of Chatham County, NC with her very supportive husband where she joyfully makes poetry, art, and/or craft almost daily and is always delighted when her work is read, published, awarded, bought, or even talked about in any kind of way. Find her on Facebook as herself or on Instagram as @convolutednotionsbycarenstuart.