I won’t explain. My aunts spell around the vanity mirror& centerpiece me, my lips plummed, my neck belled mid-flight. After the food’s uncooked, the heirloom paring knifestitched up the bell peppers & dark meat, after the fiddle leaves left their fiddles, the porch undressed of wasps & usour old names— right here. As if even the evening didn’t let on. No parking lot, no gas stations. A scytheof emptied prisons shudder alongside the highway; bougainvillea& gun oil in the sheets. All my cousins slow-dancing in their cowboy boots & antlers. My mothers singing to the dogwood tree blooming black across my arm. Your hand finally on the small of my back, without any kind of fear. This time, I’ll be a girl & you can be anythingalive. Take the rope off your wrists. Somewhere far away from here, a star’s unspooling its star-white curtain. What happens if we begin already angels?Press your ears to my wingspan. Hum a little. We are the most possible kind of daughterhood. I promise. Step into the light. Let me see the mark our rapture left behind.
Copyright © 2019 by Bradley Trumpfheller
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
Founded in Chicago by Harriet Monroe in 1912, Poetry is the oldest monthly devoted to verse in the English-speaking world. Harriet Monroe’s “Open Door” policy, set forth in Volume I of the magazine, remains the most succinct statement of Poetry’s mission: to print the best poetry written today, in whatever style, genre, or approach.