Poetry, the imagination, and the creative life.
NestDear heart, it’s time. I’ve felt it for weeks,and just this morning the barn swallowsreturned to build their nest in the eaves,flew 600 miles in a single day to find mewading the reeds in Tadpole Pond.Their split tails cut the air, orange throatssucking up insects spring intendedfor my garden. This is how we linethe nest; feather, horse hair, cotton.This is how we catch with our mouthsin midair. This is how we return timeafter time, voices cracking winter'sscab, voices humming, pitchedsideways like warmed paraffin. I’m notafraid to say it. I never wanted this greatdistance, all those miles ringing out.Darling, my desire sings from mudslide, bees frozen in the comb, magnolia liftingher stingy pink fingers to heaven. I amthe clubfoot colt, the crooked lamb,the cleft and bloody whelp, the spoon-full of mice stillborn in the kitchen drawer.I am the buck-toothed girl who waitsat the fence, watching for spring’s terrible thaw.Love,Rebecca
Rebecca: I LOVE this poem. It is one of my favorites in _Tarantella_. "bees frozen in the comb" "magnolia lifting her stingy pink finger to heaven" (fits the picture~) "crooked lamb" "spoonful of mice stillborn in a drawer" Lovely. Stunning.
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