Thrush Poetry Journal
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Michael Mercurio
​

Before I lived in this house   someone else did
 
& planted haphazard    daffodils in liminal spaces:
along the fenceline,   in the thin   verge between
basement window and driveway.    A surprise
 
every spring:    I do nothing,    but they
return & return    to hang their pallid heads.
Who can say what they mourn?     Surely we
have no shortage of sorrows   & complicities.
 
In the year you died   the cold spells dawdled
through April;   we never knew   if what fell
was pollen  or snow  until sun punctuated it.
 
Attentive presence   is a gift that gives itself
in two directions.  The ruptured & aloof
don't understand  possibility;     they see only
what   wrongness  is.     You saw that,  too,
 
& yet knew   it wasn’t all.   Incarnated in
joy   & salted   by its opposition.    Rich
 
with compost,    with children.    Dirt is
a poem,    you might say.   Taste how sweet.
 
                                    For Michael Biegner




Michael Mercurio lives and writes in Western Massachusetts. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Palette Poetry, the Inflectionist Review, Bear Review, Sugar House Review, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. He serves as Director of Community Engagement for Faraday Publishing Company, a nonprofit organization committed to centering marginalized voices. https://www.poetmercurio.com/





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