January 2020
Andrea Potos
apotos@gmail.com
Bio Note:  My most recent collections of poetry are Mothershell from Kelsay Books, and A Stone to Carry Home from Salmon Poetry in Ireland. I find great inspiration in travelling and cafes, and am a certified book addict, the physical kind I can hold and treasure in my hands.

Mothershell

Death is what mothers do alone,
daughters cannot come along,
or pause the creaking boat.—Sally Nacker

A small current was all it took
to usher you out, onto that strip of silver light
laid down for you,
the relief of your smile meeting the stars.

I knew I had no say in any of it;
I stand here now, gathering shells
whenever they appear. I hold them up
to my ears. On certain days
inside their silence I can hear
the echoes of your voice.

My Mother, This Morning

Outside the cafe—the stargazer lilies
nodding in their clay pots

the small tiered fountain burbling in sun,
lit drops of water tossing
tiny exclamations into air

Just now remembering that, before fully waking
this morning—inside the ear of my ear,
I swear I heard the sound of singing.

Notes from Italy

The dimples in David’s knees,
the veins pulsing in his hands,
the flecks on Puccini’s waistcoat,
threadbare cloth of his piano seat.
All the small bicycles folded and leaning
outside shops, the laundry strung high in air
and wedged in between slats of tall green shutters.
The cool vastness of Santa Croce, bones
of Dante, Michelangelo, Galileo, the voice
of the Italian guide whispering to his close group,
how I closed my eyes to listen, words
I did not understand lulled me beyond sleep, near
where Giotto’s faded angel
frescoed onto the chapel wall
almost began to speak.
These poems were orginally published in Mothershell (Kelsay Books)
©2020 Andrea Potos
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