USA

KALynch@aol.com

APRICOT TREE

A child in the crook
of a tree. A book in her lap.
A galleon outlined in red
tilts full sail on the blue
cover. No shore
in sight. Below her,
a man with a rough song
is eating the shade,
the little spoons of light.
His tune grinds down
to a curse against air,
against tatters of wind.
Pages lift and sigh
in the leafy shamble.
She does not know enough
words for things. So many
small orange worlds
hang with her. So many
small orange bodies rot
on the grass. An ocean
of yard stretches between her
and the door. The sky watches
with its many eyes. Don't move,
it whispers. And the tree
tells her, Hold still, like this.
Hold green. Hold dark.
Like this.


Published in Spoon River Poetry Review

OBSERVATION

I saw a life enter a life, yesterday, by the water,
when the peregrine swooped and snagged a plump dowitcher

and rose with the caught bird still alive and struggling.
And the falcon, pumping higher, lifted the writhing feast

with both talons to its bill and snapped the flailing neck,
not putting it out of its misery, just putting it out,

making it quiet, making the ride to the top branch smooth.
All of this took place in air. At last, settled

with its kill, the hunter pulled strand after strand
of flesh from the soft feathery body, and ropes of skin,

sinews and bones, until there was no shape left to it, only
a scrap of spine. I kept my focus while he did his work, the wind

coming up, the sun sliding down, the black arms
of the trees waving, the light on the water bending

and breaking, and I understood that where there were two birds,
there were still two birds: One who carries. One carried away.


Published in Poetry Northwest

© All Copyright, Kathleen Lynch.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.