I’ve spent too long in the boneyard.
Bring out the mandolin, the accordion, strike
the doumbek. I need to hear
the punctuation of bells and the slap
on the drummer’s thigh. Prepare
for me the stew I crave. I want to listen
to its names — cioppino, chowder, gumbo,
bouillabaisse, mohinga. I want to know
those creatures of the sea have swum
in untainted water, safe until they die to make
me even happier. Tell me
that the monarchs are on the rise
in Mexico and mean it and get me
to believe something else can stride
forward or make the necessary about-
face with the single-mindedness
of a marching band. Only a something
that matters to survival. Bring me
sun but not yet spring. Still the crocus
in its climb. Let me cheer the rightness
of April green and buttery yellow, though
the emptiness in my March body brays
its desire for color. Contemplate with me –
for me, please — the manner of resurrection
my arrangement of molecules can spark
without holding these children, and these,
captive, scorched.
—
Suzanne Swanson is the author of House of Music and the chapbook What Other Worlds: Postpartum Poems. Suzanne is a winner of the Loft Mentor Series; she helped to found Laurel Poetry Collective. Recent poems have appeared in EcoTheo Review, Terrain.org, The Hopper and West Trade Review. In 2022, she co-edited the hybrid chapbook, All You Need Is One Avocado. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Suzanne is happiest near big water.
