Yours, Lena

Between 6:10 and 6:24 the dream drained like a cup.
But as she unsheathes herself in morning dark, he lingers
as if real, this boy-child burrowed into borrowed warm.
She recalls how a younger self set out at a prance, singing,
but each time as she rounded the curve the gate banged
shut. Whose voice did she erase last night before listening? 
Now nothing hammering but the hours. The boy is gone.
She imagines floating across the grass toward barn-smell,
dill makes a dry rain of its seeds. She could pull the sky
close and textured down around her shoulders, but what
a chill shawl it would make. Like bringing miscarriage
into a room. Like finding yourself on the same path again
and there’s that slam, advance echo. Like pain waiting,
already yellow. 6:50. What is there she longs to topple?
Who to wake, what to build? She’ll learn to forgive
the leaf-blower this day and to pray. Bless all who tend
a hurting blossom. And Dear Rash World so far outside
my window, oh fuck, may this third new nub of child live.

 

 

 

 

 

 

From DOGGED HEARTS (Tupelo Press, 2010)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poems by

Ellen Doré Watson

As it was

Yours, Lena

God or no god

Women for the World