Island Mother
by Wendy Howe
As a young girl, she learned to absorb
the moods of the sea, its shadow dazzling
or darkening her body's lean share of copper.
As a woman, she has learned to hear
her son’s voice sway like the tides;
a cry rushing to flood the moment
with hunger, a cry invoking his need
for attention, and silence casting its breath
on long arms that wear the light
of sunshine or evening candles. Midwives
have told her The Gods love to watch
the earth grow in silence. Flowers open
and close without sound, trees arch
their slender backs toward the moon
and pantomime a maiden’s awakening
to passion. So when this child lies quietly
against his mother’s breast, face shaded
by her dark hair, he becomes the song
that makes the hibiscus smell stronger
and the heart glide like a small heron
over seconds tumbling seconds --
a waterfall of clear joy.
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Path
by Craig Kirchner
Mourning path to truth,
trails of white lilies, next lives,
bloom open coffin.
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