Line in a fertile, buzzing ground; twine
like the curled, life-giving cord
whose length in a chamber of
membranes and underwater sounds
once matched mine from rump to crown.
Deliverer of sustenance; mythic shield maker;
fashioner of a perfect air; perfect
cosmos, perfect sphere. And from me to her:
wastes to be purged, calls for defenses
from a viscous, Delphian orb of still-blooming
limbs and senses. It is dots and dashes now.
A relapse or a renewal of where we started:
your profile in a passing car; a cashier who
recaptures your knowing glance; the chance
sound, in a crowd, of a woman’s laugh – then your
signature sighing. Presences like parting joys.
Cues that the dirge is the wedding song – as perhaps
we’d known all along: the sudden breeze that catches
us off guard; the dog’s inexplicable bark; the smell
of rain drying; stars at their brightest before expiring.
Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved.
Published in The National Poetry Review, Fall 2020
Author's website: www.mbmclatchey.com
I got rid of my landline
when my mother died.
- For Gina