PIVOT POINTS | Laura-Gray
—a piece of ground reserved as
a burial place for strangers and the friendless poor
Then the storm
furls like a snapped sheet, folds neat
into the eastern drawer,
and it's an evening for sunset collectors,
we like to say.
from flush to muscadine
like the cherries, tree-ripened.
where crows peck: pits dangle,
stars on black stems.
Let us rehearse a lifetime’s
what we remember
folds straight-seamed with what we will;
what we will,
that white cotton, wears smooth with cleaning.
remember the blood that ran
the birds of our appendages.
So we tease thread
through cloth until it gives
into another stitch. Rise and fall,
pucker and smooth.
like a branch of forsythia; thread knotted
like the lilac or buddelia.
Our necessary scraps and buttons.
field stone and rotting log
our shed snake-skins, dull scales,
holes our mouths moved through.
uprooting old losses. Let them lie,
as if they crept off this life when their shadows
shrank to toadstools at noon.
here, engrossed in the remains
sun, barefoot, abstracted, disarrayed,
are the anthill's
swarming at your instep. We are
opportunistic weeds you pick:
are the ground wasps
chambers in your shade.