On Never Seeing My Stillborn Son’s Eyes
Squirrels press treasures into the earth.
Watchdogs fall asleep on the job. Mushrooms
grieve quietly. The rain waits, then comes,
sliding so gently down the rocks
that the rocks are featured, not the rain.
In the city, shopkeepers wrap cheeses for the night,
switch off suspended, buttery lights.
Those first astronauts must have felt sorry, as if
they had opened a gift too soon,
as they spoiled the moon with their footprints,
kicking knowledge into the dust.
Watchdogs fall asleep on the job. Mushrooms
grieve quietly. The rain waits, then comes,
sliding so gently down the rocks
that the rocks are featured, not the rain.
In the city, shopkeepers wrap cheeses for the night,
switch off suspended, buttery lights.
Those first astronauts must have felt sorry, as if
they had opened a gift too soon,
as they spoiled the moon with their footprints,
kicking knowledge into the dust.
Molly Bashaw grew up on small farms in Massachusetts, upstate NY
and Vermont. Since graduating from the Eastman School of Music in 2000,
she has lived and worked as a professional bass-trombonist and educator in
Germany. Her first book of poetry, “The Whole Field Still Moving Inside It,”
was published in 2014. More recent poetry and essays have been published
or are forthcoming in The New Yorker, Crazyhorse, and The Iowa Review.
and Vermont. Since graduating from the Eastman School of Music in 2000,
she has lived and worked as a professional bass-trombonist and educator in
Germany. Her first book of poetry, “The Whole Field Still Moving Inside It,”
was published in 2014. More recent poetry and essays have been published
or are forthcoming in The New Yorker, Crazyhorse, and The Iowa Review.