issue 25 > poetry > bornholdt

This meadow's gone to seed. Denuded stalks
Lean windward, cupping umbelled ovaries,
Shriveled and sere. Some fruits fall fertile; these
Can bear a different harvest. A woman talks
Herself toward acceptance as she walks,
Remembering. Here, summer's time was seized
By joy, swirled in white nebulae of weeds,
Birds breast to breast, indifferent to the hawk.

The nurse's face is kind. She holds a spoon . . .
Wet pestle, reek of carrot—now the drink,
Viscous, is ready. Crushed seeds float like sins.
The nurse says this will give her "slippery womb."
The girl nods quickly, knowing not to think.
She puts it to her lips. The pain begins.






Also by Shaune Bornholdt:

In the Philadelphia 30th Street Station: My Father's Ceiling