by Anna Weaver

a flatlander forgives the trees

Not all trees, mind you. There is no call

here in the South for general absolution

for that which blocks my beloved sky.

Certainly not the longleaf or loblolly, which vainly

allow only a thin strangle of stars over Carolina

highways. And not the bald cypress, their covetous

ranks concealing the flat relief of marshes

and blocking from view the divine rising confetti

of egrets. Also not the littering sweetgum, the sycamore,

or the sugarberry—each over-tall and unrepentant.

No hope for any of those. But here on this cloudless

day in Savannah, a boulevard of live oak

might draw upward a face flushed and grateful

for the gentling of sunshine. Summer heat once wicked,

bows penitent. Spanish moss trails low enough to anoint

the foreheads of local folk and traveler alike.

And there—framed like stained glass between branch

and leaf and winking in the charitable breeze—

a flash of blue blesses the eye and returns

the beholder to her natural state of grace.

---

keening

they come like animals

some fleeing some fighting

full wingspan words

live born of me and howling

once for the cat when

the needle went in

his neck flexed then soft

doll-eyes floating away

on some dead sea

and again when the baby

came after the long countdown

a loud wet thing suddenly

outside my body

this time for you

for the last untangling

of hands

the crucible

of letting go

now as before cue

the peace of being hollow

of walking away empty

as a vessel

cue me as cupped hand

as upturned face

mouth open

waiting for rain

---

Raised in Oklahoma, Anna Weaver lives in North Carolina with her two daughters. Her poems have appeared in Connotation Press, One, O-Dark-Thirty, and other journals, anthologies, and once on coffee bags (no, really). A self-described open mic tourist, she has performed in 20 states and the District of Columbia.