Marjorie Moorhead writes from the NH/VT border. Her work is collected in two poetry chapbooks, many anthologies, and several literary sites. She is a mother of two, and a survivor of the AIDS epidemic from its early years. Marjorie chooses poetry as her favorite language and community. Most recent or forthcoming work is in Verse-Virtual, Sheila-Na-Gig, Amethyst Review, Moist Poetry Journal, Indolent Books. https://marjoriewritespoetry.wordpress.com/places-you-can-see-my-work/
get held in skin; melded to bones;
floated in marrow.
Bodies, bodies, they become like baskets
holding, holding the moments we’ve walked through.
A flavor seared on the tongue
stitches to place
or person in that moment
Sound that went through chest as song,
now lingers always in every vein.
Seeing certain light diffused
in golden mist, a glow (as J.M.Turner painted),
soaks into our hearts like rain.
We carry our loads as blessing or burden, and become
a particular mix; a unique recipe. A precise bouquet;
the assortment—shapes, colors, leaves, stems—
of which flowers display and describe us
Which flowers display and describe us—
stems, leaves, colors, shapes—the assortment a precise
bouquet; a unique recipe; the particular mix we’ve become.
We carry our loads as blessing or burden,
soaking into our hearts like rain, in golden mist,
Light diffused, lingering, always now in every vein.
Sound that went through chest as song
or a person who, in that moment stitches to place;
a flavor seared on the tongue.
Holding, holding the moments we’ve walked through,
bodies, bodies, become like baskets.
Floating in marrow,
held in skin, melded to bones:
the things we carry…