New Work


Go now to the silence. It has longed for you
as a mother longs for her ransomed child.

Go, and take off your shoes, your gloves,
weave from your shadow and ache

a rough blanket. Lie down. Your body
knows itself everywhere now,

just as a deep sky knows each river and cliff,
each still meadow lazily dotted with goats.

Take off your watch cap. Allow wind
to lift it away like a raveled nest and mingle your hair

with coarser, more flammable grasses, rattling
toward barest winter. Allow sleep. Allow gratitude.

Allow the essential and hesitant leave-taking.
Now may the soft-eyed wolves approach

with the same moon tucked in their hearts
and their hungers ordained.

Now like a sprig of thistles a schoolgirl picked,
may you be forgotten.

And your old name join its fellow rustlings,
and you always be loved.

(first appeared in

The Good World

but when I painted the deer
I didnít want to scare her

so I started with the leaves
her slow tongue curled around

then the nearby apples come loose
on their brittling stems

for her alone

I painted even the halfheartedness
of that red then

herís eyes closing, leaving the sun
to tire by itself

as her lips rolled wetly across
their amiable consonant of eating

then I stopped
for it was her long day's end

but some apple still glistened

on the tip of my brush

(first appeared in The Plume Anthology of Poetry 6)

 © Frannie Lindsay.


photo by Meg Birnbaum