Focus On The Texture
Water moves woolly over her knuckles
the river cold and veined with downy froth
bubbling from where sewage leaks into the current
its toxic body twisted, torn apart by the hard meltwater.
What the fuck
happened here? she asks the startling February morning. Were there witches
here? They said in the town that there were witches.
Maybe witches, she thinks. Maybe women who were no match
for February water.
A stiff wind moves the sparse branches overhead
bones and bones and bones, waiting for April.
Underfoot the grass crackles in brittle chorus, cold
and thin against her hands.
Just don’t lie, said mama. Just
don’t lie. Just don’t lie. Just don’t
Take a breath, said the witch-pond.
scream and I’ll kill you, he said. His voice
fluttered with fragile jest. Under it a ropy violence
lurked, cold eyes like a dead fish. Scream and I’ll kill you.
Scream
Again and again, said the witch-pond. Fill your lungs with air.
We could make this go away, said the lawyer. If you say it didn’t happen.
If you say it didn’t happen. If you say
No, said the witch-pond. I heard you. Do it again.
She breathes. Opens her eyes. The world will see me float, she said.
And they will be scared, said the witch-pond.
In the pond’s surface, she stands up. Smiles as she steps lightly onto her own reflection
and doesn’t sink.
Daisy Harris
Daisy Harris Poetry 