Bio Note: I am an all-over-the-place poet. Nothing is safe. Chaffinch Press just published my fourth poetry collection, The Rain Girl, of which I am very proud. It's available everywhere.
The Small Observer
The earth has to be broken before food starts. The beginning is a soft greening, then it shoots, soon it is taller than I’ll ever be and then it turns golden. When I stand on a milestone I can see the wave of the wheat. A lark is climbing into blinding blue, trilling ecstasy.
The others talk about death. How they held their father’s hand. Hard of crying. How their Mother smiled one last smile when they saw who it was, who’d come from far away to accompany them on that last stretch. How their sister, brother took their last breath in their arms, how their lover walked away, collar up against the night air, how their dog expired under the lorry, how the dead cat came home in a box. Some ‘lost’ their children to the unforeseen, others watched their comrades explode, there are those who buried wives or husbands. Death has touched me only from afar, took some figures off the board, left some holes in the fabric of my life, blanked out colors, drew misty curtains over faces, made me an accomplice to murder: there were the goldfish that froze in the pond, the hibernating hamsters buried in the back of the garden. Whenever I imagine old friends, I correct myself quickly: they’re probably dead. Being as a migrating bird, I have held nobody’s hand, didn’t listen to any last, labored breathing, did not sit on plastic-covered chairs in the hospital ward of last resort. I have not been a witness. Yet.
©2020 Rose Mary Boehm
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