This name is still an uncertain bird in my mouth, perched at the tip of my tongue when I reach for its fragile feathered body. So small in the hold of my hand it cheeps, cheeps, cheeps and I say Finch, Finch, Finch to the mirror above the sink, check the windows are closed before loosening the grip I have on its wings uncertain if I can make the sound stick.
Write a poem that delves into the meaning of your first or last name.
The size of a lemon, which reminds me of a fruit tree, miniature, leaves buttered up and green as the unripe citruses berried in-between… and this is much the same, this slow uncurling as you ripen my own belly thickening till I peel off my layers, test the softness around my middle, squeeze the fruit flesh. You feel all this apparently, spin like a top, end over end become a flicker in a whirlwind. Still hidden by your smallness, little lemon pip blooming.
I’ve missed quite a few DVersePoets night over the past couple of months, and that’s mainly been because I’ve spent all my free time napping. The little Gremlin above is due this summer, and I’ve had all the fun of pregnancy sickness to content with, so my writing took a bit of a hit. My husband and I are very excited to welcome our little human into the world, and I thought what better way to tell my poet friends the news, than with a poem for the Open Link Night!
Squirming at the pumpkin guts, your hands scooped into ladles, spooning palmfuls of seed and sludge. We took desert spoons to the wisp remains. Raked the slick walls smooth. Marked out the features with sharpies, a wide outline mouth, hollow eyes, skeleton nose. Sawed kitchen knives through thick sick, fingers squeaking tight on the handles.
This year, that kitchen is someone else’s, and the plants have not spat out anything other than flowers, their yellow blooms autumn mulched into the borders. There is no spilling through the doorway, hat and coats rain kissed into my open arms. No mud footprints on the tiles. Only seeds, sat on the shelf, kept dark and safe, for more hospitable times. My own roots deepening, on the promises pushed away till Spring.
Evening has a weight, a sense of things settling down, comfort in closing.