Gillian Cummings
Song of Languor
after a composition by Dave Gelfand
She slept lightly there, but meant it
(sparrow, sparrow, linger). She slept lightly there,
then spied them: little blooms of white, little blooms
(if he cares for her, if he bothers). Little blooms now fall:
forget them. Little blooms—in the undergrowth, these traces.
These last blooms are white, are fleabanes. Tiny white daisies,
called fleabanes, cling to moss on stones, and breathe streams,
(sparrow, stay, stay) streams that she’d forget, gone witless,
witness of this white—water’s cry, sad as stones that sink, in birds’ dreams
(if he cares, cares anymore). Falling through this now, this moment―
no longer this now, this moment (only a bird, unsheltering what love means)―
in the trees above, these traces. Now they hurt too much, these traces.
Why are last blooms white, are fleabanes? They’re death’s color too,
these daisies. It’s a last, lost cry: gone skyward, if she could but fly, fly skyward.
Gillian Cummings’s poems have appeared in Boulevard, Colorado Review, The Cream City Review, The Laurel Review, Linebreak, The Massachusetts Review and are forthcoming in Southern Indiana Review, Calyx and Crab Orchard Review. She is the author of two chapbooks, Spirits of the Humid Cloud (dancing girl press, 2012) and Petals as an Offering in Darkness, (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her full-length manuscript, tentatively titled My Dim Aviary, has been a semi-finalist or finalist six times for prizes from The University of Wisconsin Press, Black Lawrence Press and the Crab Orchard Review Series. A graduate of Sarah Lawrence College, She is also a visual artist. You can find her website at: http://www.gilliancummingspoet.com
Return to July 2015 Edition
after a composition by Dave Gelfand
She slept lightly there, but meant it
(sparrow, sparrow, linger). She slept lightly there,
then spied them: little blooms of white, little blooms
(if he cares for her, if he bothers). Little blooms now fall:
forget them. Little blooms—in the undergrowth, these traces.
These last blooms are white, are fleabanes. Tiny white daisies,
called fleabanes, cling to moss on stones, and breathe streams,
(sparrow, stay, stay) streams that she’d forget, gone witless,
witness of this white—water’s cry, sad as stones that sink, in birds’ dreams
(if he cares, cares anymore). Falling through this now, this moment―
no longer this now, this moment (only a bird, unsheltering what love means)―
in the trees above, these traces. Now they hurt too much, these traces.
Why are last blooms white, are fleabanes? They’re death’s color too,
these daisies. It’s a last, lost cry: gone skyward, if she could but fly, fly skyward.
Gillian Cummings’s poems have appeared in Boulevard, Colorado Review, The Cream City Review, The Laurel Review, Linebreak, The Massachusetts Review and are forthcoming in Southern Indiana Review, Calyx and Crab Orchard Review. She is the author of two chapbooks, Spirits of the Humid Cloud (dancing girl press, 2012) and Petals as an Offering in Darkness, (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her full-length manuscript, tentatively titled My Dim Aviary, has been a semi-finalist or finalist six times for prizes from The University of Wisconsin Press, Black Lawrence Press and the Crab Orchard Review Series. A graduate of Sarah Lawrence College, She is also a visual artist. You can find her website at: http://www.gilliancummingspoet.com
Return to July 2015 Edition