by jessica clarke

"Wanting"



They left a bowl

of pomegranate seeds

on the counter,

red orbs bright

as their unrefined hopes

polishing a new continent,

clinging, plump with juice

as the Hebrew mysteries

they spoke

that settled in spaces

around our waiting wordlessness.



They left with

a pinch of autumn

folded into the breeze

and a wayward leaf's fancy.



Their departure cast a hold

that clutches the throat

and hangs with soft fingers,

dangling for a promise,

giving a reason to be kind,

recreating the want.





"Passing relief"



The brother chose death

to join his mother,

a man enshrined in youth

by an accident.

Last night he found his sister

in her dream,

clawing grief's chords.

So he loosened the knotted gag,

on his knees to hug forgiveness,

embracing her sorrow

to enwrap the gap he created,

leaving her gasping,

weeping to dissolve the wounds,

an aura welcome but fleeting,

like sea spray on strolling feet

or a rainbow flirting near a crest,

disappearing with a long sigh

and passing relief.







"What they'll meet"



If I could be

my sisters' children,

I wouldn't.

I'd rather cradle

them against

what they'll meet

through woods

denser than I've walked.



I'd show them

how to make

a fist

and shake it,

like a carpet

loosening crumbs,

pouring down

in hopeful

confetti.



I'd thank them

for helping me

affirm myself

and open

what I'd closed,

for my waking up

to the hope

in their faces

I feel in their fingers,

their grasp on life,

clutching clues to comfort

in the world they choose.



I'd prepare them

for all they'll learn

from what they'll lose,

for cherishing the incomplete,

and avoiding

what's been killed

by what they'll meet.