Oriental Poppies
for my mother Lit matches struck in the dark, road-flares burning, these poppies smolder by the bird bath where we brought my mother’s ashes when her life wicked out. Each flower is splotched with black, night at the heart of burning day. Light shines through the petals, translucent as skin. At the end, her bones shone through, the skeleton wanting to dance. The poppies’ orange tango, a wild fandango with the wind. Nothing in English rhymes with this color, not porridge, not ordinary, not original. We only have one mother. Reach for a blossom, twirl it in your fingers, a dancer on an unlit stage. Every gardener knows about loss: thinning, pruning, the appetite of rabbits, how frost waits in the wings, sharpening his shears. Barbara Crooker This poem first appeared in Barbara Crooker's book Gold (Poiema Books). Barbara Crooker is the author of nine books of poetry; Les Fauves is the most recent. Her work has appeared in many anthologies, including The Bedford Introduction to Literature, Commonwealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania, The Poetry of Presence and Nasty Women: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse. www.barbaracrooker.com
1 Comment
Linda Steinbicker
12/20/2018 09:31:56 pm
Barb, loved the poem. However, when I clicked on to "like", it came up dislike or some stupid word. The poem was lovely and best wishes for more of your works to be published. I'm thinking this computer is my mortal enemy. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you and your family.
Reply
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This website uses marketing and tracking technologies. Opting out of this will opt you out of all cookies, except for those needed to run the website. Note that some products may not work as well without tracking cookies. Opt Out of CookiesJoin us: Facebook and Bluesky
May 2025
|