Can you make a poem about this? About us.
                                                          —M. P.

Like me, you are descended from
royalty, no matter how thin the line
of rabbis, esteemed mayors of the old
city. Great grandchild of the tiger
lily, the Polish Pope’s second
cousin once removed, or, like me,
some bubble of high seas blown along
the Mayflower’s deck,

you, too, are of the undertow:
tired mothers’ lithe fingers, ditch-labors
of fathers, the crouched lover, a schoolyard
friend whispering rebellion
through the slats. Clandestine blooms,
hidden birds of the field, neither
did they spin themselves
fictions of the crest.

Slipped amid root stems
of the venerable grain, tiny daisies
sustain the earth. The found
is so small: tomorrow’s enfolded
alteration and the memory of my hands
around your close-shorn head. Quick,
the acclaimed swallow falls
silent. But bunting, sparrow,

what is that other bird,
the shy one who tucks both
wings to its sides mid-flight
to sing? Tight little body-plummet
between wing-beats. This morning
your name rests so bright
on my tongue. Yes, Miroslaw,
the folded moment can be sung.


Christina Hutchins                                   51ilsmuUKaL._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_ (1) square
from Tender the Maker

First appeared in Alehouse Review

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