July 2016
Laurie Byro
philbop@warwick.net
philbop@warwick.net
In 1985, while pursuing a business degree, I unhappily landed in a creative writing class and announced to the group that I thought Walt Whitman was a chain of schools throughout the United States. To my astonishment, I had found my pacing, abandoned prose, and started a poetry circle that has been meeting for 16 years. I recently published a full length book, “Luna.” through Aldrich Press and “Gertrude Stein’s Salon and Other Legends” through Blue Horse Press, thanks to Tobi and Jeff Alfier. I am the Poet in Residence at the West Milford Township Library and despite it all, love New Jersey, and have lived here almost 60 years.
Green Woman
Long after the fruit rotted I stood under
the tree waiting for the green woman to appear.
I suspect that in every sense made holy
by circumstance or memory, she had been
my invention as I had been hers. We hunger for
youth, channel our babies into moss-laden cribs.
Somehow, our mothers’ bodies are cleansed into
the wild wood. Her benevolent expression
is so unlike my own crooked desires. She clutches
my hands as if to still them, I could have been
that way once but now there are things I have forgotten
to tell you about myself, things that would make you
want to fall in love. Instead, these half-truths
make the nights cold, curled leaves skitter around me.
The apples at my feet are wizened—made bold
by territorial worms. I would like to be generous
and say that both of us turned out all right, but
how important is it for you to be my emissary?
While I sleep in snow, busy yourselves replanting
my story in an orchard of your own frivolous history.
Green Woman
Long after the fruit rotted I stood under
the tree waiting for the green woman to appear.
I suspect that in every sense made holy
by circumstance or memory, she had been
my invention as I had been hers. We hunger for
youth, channel our babies into moss-laden cribs.
Somehow, our mothers’ bodies are cleansed into
the wild wood. Her benevolent expression
is so unlike my own crooked desires. She clutches
my hands as if to still them, I could have been
that way once but now there are things I have forgotten
to tell you about myself, things that would make you
want to fall in love. Instead, these half-truths
make the nights cold, curled leaves skitter around me.
The apples at my feet are wizened—made bold
by territorial worms. I would like to be generous
and say that both of us turned out all right, but
how important is it for you to be my emissary?
While I sleep in snow, busy yourselves replanting
my story in an orchard of your own frivolous history.
©2016 Laurie Byro