Sally Rosen Kindred
Late Dream with Winter Coat
Out of my coat came a womb―
my mattress, my charcoal moon.
(Mercy is the myth, sewn back into the belly with rocks
after the dead are lifted out.)
From this wolf-dark wool (smoke pockets,
cloud collar), this prize I’d pulled
from my mother’s
own house, hardwood knots
unraveled. Blurred into the yard. Mud
in the cradle, mud in the code―
and tile claws, glyphic, marked
the lining at my hips. Tell you someone stole
my mattress, dragged it, slapping wet
steps, down to a strange
cellar floor. Unfinished. Painted it
gray. Turned it like a page.
Spread across its sheets and craters
a family of rocks, piled plastic hair and lips,
all my heart’s dead dolls. Now, back
in my body, no place to lie down.
And the cold comes, (it’s winter,
remember,) shakes the walls with the clock’s
hollow bell. Mercy is
the motor, spinning this story,
dream-wheel of
wolf-pelt and curls: on the coat
made of mother’s words
and cigarette ghosts
the buttons groan. Still I wear
it. Hold its season
against me. Skin of a clock-face,
shoulder and seam: even
empty, it keeps me warm.
Sally Rosen Kindred is the author of two books from Mayapple Press, Book of Asters (2014) and No Eden (2011), and a chapbook, Darling Hands, Darling Tongue (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). She has received fellowships from the Maryland State Arts Council and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts. You can find her online at sallyrosenkindred.com.
Return to September 2015 Edition
Out of my coat came a womb―
my mattress, my charcoal moon.
(Mercy is the myth, sewn back into the belly with rocks
after the dead are lifted out.)
From this wolf-dark wool (smoke pockets,
cloud collar), this prize I’d pulled
from my mother’s
own house, hardwood knots
unraveled. Blurred into the yard. Mud
in the cradle, mud in the code―
and tile claws, glyphic, marked
the lining at my hips. Tell you someone stole
my mattress, dragged it, slapping wet
steps, down to a strange
cellar floor. Unfinished. Painted it
gray. Turned it like a page.
Spread across its sheets and craters
a family of rocks, piled plastic hair and lips,
all my heart’s dead dolls. Now, back
in my body, no place to lie down.
And the cold comes, (it’s winter,
remember,) shakes the walls with the clock’s
hollow bell. Mercy is
the motor, spinning this story,
dream-wheel of
wolf-pelt and curls: on the coat
made of mother’s words
and cigarette ghosts
the buttons groan. Still I wear
it. Hold its season
against me. Skin of a clock-face,
shoulder and seam: even
empty, it keeps me warm.
Sally Rosen Kindred is the author of two books from Mayapple Press, Book of Asters (2014) and No Eden (2011), and a chapbook, Darling Hands, Darling Tongue (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). She has received fellowships from the Maryland State Arts Council and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts. You can find her online at sallyrosenkindred.com.
Return to September 2015 Edition