like dirty words. When the rose spots
came out on my belly—that was the omen
the doctor told us—Mother cried.
All night the doctor sponged and sponged
with spring water. I shivered and moaned.
Days passed, and Father said, What
God damned luck, when the red spotted his side.
More days pass, weeks. A dry gust blows
the maple’s crown inside out, like Mother
throwing wet hair over her bowed head.
Thunder growls and rattles the windows.
I rise from bed, called by the banging door.
Stinging rain welcomes me from the dead.
By JS Absher
1 comment:
JS Absher has been an offset printer, missionary, bank teller, janitor, and consultant, sold mutual funds, and surveyed scrub timberland. He co-hosts the monthly Second Thursday reading series at Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill and recently conducted the Poet’s Workshop through Duke University Continuing Studies. He has taught freshman English in NC and a course on the ballad in Belize. His most recent book, Night Weather, was published by Cynosura Press in January 2011. His chapbook, The Burial of Anyce Shepherd, was published in 2006 by Main Street Rag. You can follow him at www.twitter.com/JSAbsher.
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