Startled by the Breaking Cup of Spring
Th sun is climbing trees, scattering crumbs
of light across the bed they used to share,
and it staggers grief, it churns the mud of prayer
to wonder where he is. A long-limbed
memory clambers in the window, forcing
her head beneath the surface of the past.
His arm lay there; he dozed with brightness pouring
through that pane of pollen-crusted glass,
skin smelling like bitter sprigs of thyme,
hair fluttering, day alchemized to dusk.
The furniture’s all here. But he is gone.
She makes the bed to smooth unruly time.
She straightens books and disinfects the desk.
She tidies things until they don’t belong.
of light across the bed they used to share,
and it staggers grief, it churns the mud of prayer
to wonder where he is. A long-limbed
memory clambers in the window, forcing
her head beneath the surface of the past.
His arm lay there; he dozed with brightness pouring
through that pane of pollen-crusted glass,
skin smelling like bitter sprigs of thyme,
hair fluttering, day alchemized to dusk.
The furniture’s all here. But he is gone.
She makes the bed to smooth unruly time.
She straightens books and disinfects the desk.
She tidies things until they don’t belong.
Sweetgum Ball
Spike-laden fruit, ant mansion, prickle-globe
of hollow darks, an orb abhorred by those
who treasure lawns, caltrops for human toes,
considered spiny litter, ignoble nub
of nature’s unprofitable side, the sweetgum ball
is loved by kids with nothing else to throw.
I used to hoard them, hurl them at a wall
of white brick, rapt in the golden glow
of a task completely useless. They’d bunch
at the base, where concrete swallowed brick,
then decompose until the jolts of March,
when a hundred sweetgums sprouted fast and thick,
cracking bricks with young, swarming roots,
bright green choking out the white of use.
of hollow darks, an orb abhorred by those
who treasure lawns, caltrops for human toes,
considered spiny litter, ignoble nub
of nature’s unprofitable side, the sweetgum ball
is loved by kids with nothing else to throw.
I used to hoard them, hurl them at a wall
of white brick, rapt in the golden glow
of a task completely useless. They’d bunch
at the base, where concrete swallowed brick,
then decompose until the jolts of March,
when a hundred sweetgums sprouted fast and thick,
cracking bricks with young, swarming roots,
bright green choking out the white of use.
Forester McClatchey is a writer and teacher from Atlanta, GA. His work appears in 32 Poems, Hopkins Review, Gulf Coast, Oxford Poetry, CrazyHorse, and Plough, among other journals.
“Startled by the Breaking Cup of Spring” borrows its title from the Sung Dynasty poet Li Ch’ing-chao, who died in 1151. The translation is Kenneth Rexroth’s. “Sweetgum Ball” is the culmination of a lifetime’s interest in those spiky, weirdly light projectiles. One of my earliest memories involves throwing them, for no apparent reason, at a white brick wall.
“Startled by the Breaking Cup of Spring” borrows its title from the Sung Dynasty poet Li Ch’ing-chao, who died in 1151. The translation is Kenneth Rexroth’s. “Sweetgum Ball” is the culmination of a lifetime’s interest in those spiky, weirdly light projectiles. One of my earliest memories involves throwing them, for no apparent reason, at a white brick wall.