Two Poems

by Anna Weaver

Sunburst in snowy Forest

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.


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.

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