Anna Tomlinson
Winter Birth
Lean-to in the field grass,
away from the house. Small goat
my father gave breath to, named
Star. The other, Jack Frost.
It was early, dark. The ice still
in needled patterns over the doors.
Up the hill the vanished lane
held no light, not even now,
not the thin owls trilling goodbye
to what they’ve named. Over & over,
incantation of breath into her throat,
my father’s haloed lamp.
Anna Tomlinson grew up on Sauvie Island, Oregon and now lives in Salt Lake City. She earned an MFA in poetry from the University of Virginia. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, The Adroit Journal, Frontier Poetry, Blackbird, and Fugue. Her work can be found at annatomlinsonpoet.com.
Return to January 2023 Edition
Lean-to in the field grass,
away from the house. Small goat
my father gave breath to, named
Star. The other, Jack Frost.
It was early, dark. The ice still
in needled patterns over the doors.
Up the hill the vanished lane
held no light, not even now,
not the thin owls trilling goodbye
to what they’ve named. Over & over,
incantation of breath into her throat,
my father’s haloed lamp.
Anna Tomlinson grew up on Sauvie Island, Oregon and now lives in Salt Lake City. She earned an MFA in poetry from the University of Virginia. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, The Adroit Journal, Frontier Poetry, Blackbird, and Fugue. Her work can be found at annatomlinsonpoet.com.
Return to January 2023 Edition