Sally Rosen Kindred
And Ryegrass, and Wind
When we drove by the field where the horse
always stood, the chestnut
named Loretta, you’d swing
your hand to the glass, say Horse,
you’d spin your hand in the air to ghost
the mall carousel, I’d say
But those horses
aren’t real, you’d say
Nay, and one day
the field had no horse in it.
One day the air was a hole
all the nutbrown real
had fallen through. That day
you splayed your hand on the glass
and said Horse the way
you’d say Milk, and there
was only thistle and a lip of light.
The next day there was a paper
on the fence, some child’s
crayon paper of a Horse.
And you made me drive
to the fence and climb out
and touch the muddy sheet.
Or we‘d drive and park
in front of the raw, unstained grass,
our windows up, and watch
the brown crayon lick the wet
pulp dripping from last night’s
rain. You’d bring your cup
of red juice or a book
in the car. And you are
two arms
lifting and spinning, you
are nosing the glass and I
am your mother, I am the one
who is supposed to save you, my flank, my gambol, my
mane, who can never save you, my flesh,
my field, my whinny, my clover hair.
I Tell What Kind of Girl
1.
There was a girl, once, sewn into an elm.
She thought a fox set her there―
couldn’t be sure.
Softened against the stitches, she tamed
their cries by hand,
but this girl wed her bones to desire.
Her longing sang, soured
through heartwood. And then her hurt
burned her through: broke
from buds and flooded the fields
in all her white wings.
It must have been good.
2.
There was another girl, trapped in a tooth―
she rose and fell in the wind’s cool mouth.
She was afraid to invent a body
she could leave, so she stayed there
and the wind
held her. In mutual dread
they sang, they circled the meadow.
She believed she needed a fox’s heat
to find her skin, to open a white door
and let her down into the grass,
but none could come
inside, where the walls were December smooth
and cold. It wasn’t like ice.
It wasn’t like anything you know.
Through the white door
she could hear
the pinched hearts of asphodel―
and then it opened
like mercy, like breath,
when she began to tell.
Sally Rosen Kindred is the author of two full-length poetry books from Mayapple Press, No Eden (2011) and Book of Asters (2014). Her most recent chapbook is Darling Hands, Darling Tongue, nominated for an Elgin Award (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). Her poems have appeared in Blackbird, Quarterly West, The Journal, Best New Poets 2009, and on Verse Daily. For more information, see sallyrosenkindred.com
Return to November 2014 Edition
When we drove by the field where the horse
always stood, the chestnut
named Loretta, you’d swing
your hand to the glass, say Horse,
you’d spin your hand in the air to ghost
the mall carousel, I’d say
But those horses
aren’t real, you’d say
Nay, and one day
the field had no horse in it.
One day the air was a hole
all the nutbrown real
had fallen through. That day
you splayed your hand on the glass
and said Horse the way
you’d say Milk, and there
was only thistle and a lip of light.
The next day there was a paper
on the fence, some child’s
crayon paper of a Horse.
And you made me drive
to the fence and climb out
and touch the muddy sheet.
Or we‘d drive and park
in front of the raw, unstained grass,
our windows up, and watch
the brown crayon lick the wet
pulp dripping from last night’s
rain. You’d bring your cup
of red juice or a book
in the car. And you are
two arms
lifting and spinning, you
are nosing the glass and I
am your mother, I am the one
who is supposed to save you, my flank, my gambol, my
mane, who can never save you, my flesh,
my field, my whinny, my clover hair.
I Tell What Kind of Girl
1.
There was a girl, once, sewn into an elm.
She thought a fox set her there―
couldn’t be sure.
Softened against the stitches, she tamed
their cries by hand,
but this girl wed her bones to desire.
Her longing sang, soured
through heartwood. And then her hurt
burned her through: broke
from buds and flooded the fields
in all her white wings.
It must have been good.
2.
There was another girl, trapped in a tooth―
she rose and fell in the wind’s cool mouth.
She was afraid to invent a body
she could leave, so she stayed there
and the wind
held her. In mutual dread
they sang, they circled the meadow.
She believed she needed a fox’s heat
to find her skin, to open a white door
and let her down into the grass,
but none could come
inside, where the walls were December smooth
and cold. It wasn’t like ice.
It wasn’t like anything you know.
Through the white door
she could hear
the pinched hearts of asphodel―
and then it opened
like mercy, like breath,
when she began to tell.
Sally Rosen Kindred is the author of two full-length poetry books from Mayapple Press, No Eden (2011) and Book of Asters (2014). Her most recent chapbook is Darling Hands, Darling Tongue, nominated for an Elgin Award (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). Her poems have appeared in Blackbird, Quarterly West, The Journal, Best New Poets 2009, and on Verse Daily. For more information, see sallyrosenkindred.com
Return to November 2014 Edition