Laurie Byro Verse-Virtual 2017 November

November 2017

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 have published four poetry collections, most recently: “The Bloomsberries and Other Curiosities” Kelsay Books and “Wonder” Little Lantern Press (out of Wales). https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Laurie+Byro 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.

The Rabbit Mother

I am shocked to have to claim my mother’s body
as if being handed a poppy by a stranger who has asked
me for a dance. I am avoiding the building
my mother rests in, the long gash of wounded red

bricks, her withered body, the plastic bag and tubes
that slither over her like ghostly snakes. I am avoiding
all my mistakes. She flickers from flame to an icy
rabbit’s ear. After the hail storm that takes down the tops

of trees I catch a glimpse of her twice—in the snow
moths and the den of twigs. I call out to her “Run,
Mother, hide." A winter rabbit waits for spring to warm
her kits’ whiskers. I discover the rubble of a stone house

with its ruined garden in the woods. I dig poppies and bring
them home to soothe the soil. It must be done in the right
season or they never thrive. As I bend and beg them to stay
a stray petal wets my cheek, like a goodnight kiss.

-previously published in The Journal of NJ Poets

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