Molly Spencer
Persephone: Since she kept asking,
I gave her an answer.
Chose a window with a view
of rough country. Said oak,
said aster. Piled up lies
in her warm brown eyes.
What can she know
of the word crawlspace,
of the choiring black
birds that nest
in my hair? Look
out the window, Mom.
The bright moss
is my sash as it tore. The bone-
white road, remnant press
of my spine. The far smoke
is my father’s slight
amendment.
Blue mountain,
torn rind
of my heart. And there
in the middle distance, near the house
that kneels, praying, on the hillside―
he is the black horse
barely rendered,
I am the open door.
Novembering
How can I explain? I feel him
remembering me. His songs of lost
seasons lace through
my ribs, and in my veins
dreams of that first winter
thaw and flow. Even as I gather
late apples, dry leaves
stutter in the wind like his regrets―
the thieving, the blindfold,
the groundward ride.
Who would believe
that by the time of rain
and runoff, he’d become almost tender,
wading my homesick waters, culling smooth stones
to stack on our table, pulling out
my chair. Mom, he built a house for me
and the rooms, though dark,
are budding. The windows gleam like scars
of my own skin. Mom, it’s years now
and my hand knows the curve
of his back, my bones give way
to the opening door
of his voice saying winter.
These waning days
are the pitch of his roof gathering in
my weak protests, becoming wind
and wingspan
of the only life I know.
Molly Spencer’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Copper Nickel, Georgia Review, The Missouri Review poem-of-the-week web feature, New England Review, Ploughshares, and other journals. She’s a student at the Rainier Writing Workshop and an assistant poetry editor at The Rumpus. Find her online at www.mollyspencer.wordpress.com/.
Return to March 2017 Edition
I gave her an answer.
Chose a window with a view
of rough country. Said oak,
said aster. Piled up lies
in her warm brown eyes.
What can she know
of the word crawlspace,
of the choiring black
birds that nest
in my hair? Look
out the window, Mom.
The bright moss
is my sash as it tore. The bone-
white road, remnant press
of my spine. The far smoke
is my father’s slight
amendment.
Blue mountain,
torn rind
of my heart. And there
in the middle distance, near the house
that kneels, praying, on the hillside―
he is the black horse
barely rendered,
I am the open door.
Novembering
How can I explain? I feel him
remembering me. His songs of lost
seasons lace through
my ribs, and in my veins
dreams of that first winter
thaw and flow. Even as I gather
late apples, dry leaves
stutter in the wind like his regrets―
the thieving, the blindfold,
the groundward ride.
Who would believe
that by the time of rain
and runoff, he’d become almost tender,
wading my homesick waters, culling smooth stones
to stack on our table, pulling out
my chair. Mom, he built a house for me
and the rooms, though dark,
are budding. The windows gleam like scars
of my own skin. Mom, it’s years now
and my hand knows the curve
of his back, my bones give way
to the opening door
of his voice saying winter.
These waning days
are the pitch of his roof gathering in
my weak protests, becoming wind
and wingspan
of the only life I know.
Molly Spencer’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Copper Nickel, Georgia Review, The Missouri Review poem-of-the-week web feature, New England Review, Ploughshares, and other journals. She’s a student at the Rainier Writing Workshop and an assistant poetry editor at The Rumpus. Find her online at www.mollyspencer.wordpress.com/.
Return to March 2017 Edition