April 2016
Kathleen Brewin Lewis
klew1215@bellsouth.net
klew1215@bellsouth.net
I'm a Georgia writer who focuses on the natural and the lyrical. I love to hike along the Chattahoochee River in Atlanta, the beach at Tybee Island, and the mountains of western North Carolina. My daughter has recently moved to Boulder, Colorado, and I'm looking forward to learning the trails there. My first chapbook, Fluent in Rivers, was published by FutureCycle Press in 2014, and my second chapbook, July's Thick Kingdom, in December of 2015. Recent publication credits include Southern Humanities Review, The Tishman Review, Cider Press Review, and Menacing Hedge.
Whereupon the Writer Thinks She Is the Center of the Universe
In a lonely corner of the night,
she sits writing at the kitchen table
while her house sleeps. The outside
is trying to come in.
Dusty moths and brown beetles
are beating on the glass,
covering the window panes
with their soft wings and crisp bodies,
drawn to, absolutely craving,
her light.
She is spooked, distracted,
she is finally flattered,
writing more intently
for her fluttering audience,
strangely moved by the staccato
of their gentle collisions.
This night is alive, she is thinking,
it is pulsing with the beat of my heart.
And all eyes—
all of the tiny, glittering eyes—
are on me.
"Whereupon" was first published in Loose Change.
Eggshell
The morning is a chiffon scarf. A child
steps out into soft light,
a spotted egg cupped in his hands.
I rest my palm on the place where
his bowed head meets his slim neck.
Sometimes this is prophecy,
sometimes recollection.
To touch him this way is always a blessing.
Afternoon, a chambray shirt, rolls its sleeves up.
The boy lifts his head, tells me
of his dreaming, turns his attention
to the plunge of a red-tailed hawk.
There is composure in his turning.
His shoulders broaden, he grows taller than I.
The egg cracks open. The night is a winter
coat with silver buttons.
"Eggshell" was first published in Foundling Review.
Fluent in Rivers
Before you knew me
before I came to root myself
in these red clay hills beside your father
I lived by the coastline
swam its creeks and rivers.
Afloat in brackishness,
watching blue crabs pedal
sideways and away,
I heard the call of the marsh hen,
was solitary but never afraid.
Shoulders draped with dark water,
I let cool tendrils of current
carry me around the bend
until I turned, kicked, stroked my way back
to the sunburnt dock, the anchor of its ladder.
The clacking of grizzled oyster beds
white heron lifting over green marsh
fish leaping like celebrants
the suck, seep of tidal life,
holding my breath, gliding through all.
Today the wind moans around the house,
rattles the cellar door. I peel potatoes
while you sleep in the back bedroom.
When you wake, I need to tell you:
Before you knew me
before I was your mother
I swam through summer,
was fluent in rivers.
“Fluent in Rivers” was first published in Loose Change.
In a lonely corner of the night,
she sits writing at the kitchen table
while her house sleeps. The outside
is trying to come in.
Dusty moths and brown beetles
are beating on the glass,
covering the window panes
with their soft wings and crisp bodies,
drawn to, absolutely craving,
her light.
She is spooked, distracted,
she is finally flattered,
writing more intently
for her fluttering audience,
strangely moved by the staccato
of their gentle collisions.
This night is alive, she is thinking,
it is pulsing with the beat of my heart.
And all eyes—
all of the tiny, glittering eyes—
are on me.
"Whereupon" was first published in Loose Change.
Eggshell
The morning is a chiffon scarf. A child
steps out into soft light,
a spotted egg cupped in his hands.
I rest my palm on the place where
his bowed head meets his slim neck.
Sometimes this is prophecy,
sometimes recollection.
To touch him this way is always a blessing.
Afternoon, a chambray shirt, rolls its sleeves up.
The boy lifts his head, tells me
of his dreaming, turns his attention
to the plunge of a red-tailed hawk.
There is composure in his turning.
His shoulders broaden, he grows taller than I.
The egg cracks open. The night is a winter
coat with silver buttons.
"Eggshell" was first published in Foundling Review.
Fluent in Rivers
Before you knew me
before I came to root myself
in these red clay hills beside your father
I lived by the coastline
swam its creeks and rivers.
Afloat in brackishness,
watching blue crabs pedal
sideways and away,
I heard the call of the marsh hen,
was solitary but never afraid.
Shoulders draped with dark water,
I let cool tendrils of current
carry me around the bend
until I turned, kicked, stroked my way back
to the sunburnt dock, the anchor of its ladder.
The clacking of grizzled oyster beds
white heron lifting over green marsh
fish leaping like celebrants
the suck, seep of tidal life,
holding my breath, gliding through all.
Today the wind moans around the house,
rattles the cellar door. I peel potatoes
while you sleep in the back bedroom.
When you wake, I need to tell you:
Before you knew me
before I was your mother
I swam through summer,
was fluent in rivers.
“Fluent in Rivers” was first published in Loose Change.
©2016 Kathleen Brewin Lewis