Carrie Albert is Writer-Artist in Residence at both Penhead-Press and ink sweat & tears. Her poetry has recently appeared in Grey Sparrow, HEArt, Earth’s Daughters, cahoodaloodaling among many others. She lives in Seattle.
Bless the Gold Blanket and Flannel Pajamas,
being back home on the couch,
all day, reflecting.
Bless scent of purple flowers,
and daffodils that finally opened.
Bless the circular walkway through the park.
Bless crows that fly around a man.
Bless bread he tosses them.
Bless hungry scavengers.
Bless black wings.
Bless the leap over mountains, safe
Bless the curled leaf pod.
Bless grief that rises with morning
and slips underground without light.
Bless the walnut hull
that slips off.
To cherish means one day
Bless breath, fortune
to stay on.
Bless these arms that held
Mother and her sorrowed gulps
Bless these hands that clasped
a seashell to her ear, offering
A stranger on the bus offered
a paper bag with surplus
buds of reincarnation.
Every springtime, Mom thanked me
for sending her those tulips.
The tenants temporarily
transplanted into her house
don’t need to know this
to see grace resurrected, bloom
like a love song. Some believe
ovals of ourselves return
the way perennials are called
by sun and rain. Some say light-
bulb souls sail through air
shine warmth into hard spaces.
Mom’s ashes have scattered
yet she still holds my hand
in a dream. Her voice calls
my name, without any sound.
The stairway leads down to a door
that’s painted lavender, the same
hue as my grandmother’s dress.
She lives here eternally and greets
with a hug that’s ethereal yet
like a thousand smiles. Open-
eyed to the morning, we stroll
the round garden. A honeysuckle
breeze zithers through. We touch
a rainbow of leaves: furry tongues,
satin gowns, pillows for our fingers.
The fountain in the center is the only
remnant of construction. In time
I will build a house, the way
a spider spins, on instinct. A border
of evergreens guard the sky-
blue-ceiling unmarred by flying
machines. Visitors are invited
but never stay too long. Beyond
the trees is endless-blackness,
both infinite and as small
as this page.