Cynthia Anderson

Cynthia Anderson has published 12 poetry collections, most recently Arrival (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2023) and Full Circle (Cholla Needles Press, 2022). Her poems appear frequently in journals and anthologies, and her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She has lived in California for over 40 years. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com

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Girl with a Watering Can

After the painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

She was the daughter I never had,
with the wide face and bright eyes
of her father. She came to me
fully formed, and my heart broke,
knowing she would never be born—
lost to myself and the garden.
In her blue party dress, she smiled
with the simple joy of an angel.
My dream sheltered her—
I never had to explain that the man
who helped make her was a casual
sex partner, a known Casanova—
someone I hooked up with every
year or two, for an hour or two,
who would then reliably disappear.
He held untold women hostage,
body and soul. They all had hopes
for him. One conquest, a friend
of mine, asked with genuine
distress, Did you sleep with him?
And though she knew I was lying,
I said No. Once I spent the night
at his A-frame in the canyon
hidden among sycamores.
Before dawn a lover called,
fighting, on her way over.
You better get out of here,
he sighed. That was the night
of non-conception, a pregnancy
over as soon as begun.
He never won my heart except
for that moment in a parallel
world when our daughter
stood before me—and I felt
a glimmer of what it means
to be a mother, have a girl
to mentor, share mysteries
of seeds and water, and show
how to bake an angel food cake—
separate eggs, beat the whites,
fold gently into the batter,
then wait while it rises sky high.

The Mourning Cloak

Do we dare break
the cocoon where
we wrapped ourselves
each night?

The mystery is how
the butterfly arrived.
We stood aimlessly
in a tangle of weeds,

reluctant to say goodbye—
and there it was,
sudden and perfect,
alone and dying

a mantle of black
fringed by yellow
half moons,
orange eyes,

and blue galaxies
charged with
iridescent stars—
Together we stroked

the soft fur
of the messenger
before it fluttered
to a tall pine

Later the wings
will fall
to the ground
and be destroyed

or eaten
But we are alive
to choose again
in this version

of the world
as sure as sap rises
through the trees