Thunder Sandwich  #23

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Sarah Allard

Circle: Eight Stars

Feet form obscured lines

where floorboards erupt

into cracked fields; battle lands of maple;

wood finish; years of bootprint and subsequent scour.

My child will learn your absence

first, while covered in his mother's thighs.

And I have no answers but the name of this month,

which I recall simply because of the way the leaves drift;

octagonal, from the underside, and this; is the only infinity I know.

This womb is not fertile,

sterility will pass through my veins.

I do not know of the basin of peach-plum;

berry growth; fruitless; my abdomen will refuse to ripen.

The window births a tree-line.

Its frame, conjoined as twins with the landscape.

I see sky with wood-black bars; I used to paint it,

my clouds in cages.  In years I realized

nothing holds the sky.

I employ the wooden bars as hands;

I bind me.

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