I touch the paper at its corner, fold
and roll, the lake-wave body green and cold.
The lake lies long in front of me, beyond
new leaves. I lack a human touch and bond,
my eyes despair the pink and purple flowers.
The shoots, the dots, contain my life in hours
this April walk I took to bed with me.
Sharpened my beak against a maple tree,
then flew my caw away. Now distant, near
on wind I fly again to meet her ear.
This twig will build my nest, this jagged cloud
will saw me from the massive mortal crowd
passing its note on earth with shine or stink,
while playing on the shore, one midnight mink.
—
Mary Meriam studied poetry at Columbia University (MFA) and Bennington College (BA). She works as an editor and publisher of lesbian poetry and art, and teaches in the MFA program at the University of Arkansas. Her most recent poetry collection is Pools of June (Exot Books, 2022). Her poems have appeared in Literary Imagination, Literary Matters, Poetry, Post Road, Prelude, Rattle, Subtropics, and The Poetry Review.
