In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Prairie Schooner 79.3 (2005) 52-54



[Access article in PDF]

Three Poems

Bathsheba

Eveningtide,
watching water
overflow the ewer's lip

I felt the weight of being pressed flat against a cliff,
your mouth against mine,
the comfort of your insistence
meeting mine like a precipice, yes, an edge,
no, not the ledge but near the base, no, above,
at the edge, as if you were the rock and I
became another, someone different, something fluid
from deep inside the earth
running the way water runs down steep slopes,
flattening myself against the features I depended on,
falling, loudly, always falling, down. [End Page 52]
See how the trees adore the river and won't leave,
though all around them the land stretches treeless?

St. Germaine Considers the Gift of Hunger

I.

Brass bells ring the morning in. Last night
I stole Mother's pig slops, left over apple
skins, porridge, crusts of bread, cheese rinds, handfuls
of soft quince, curdled cream. She caught me
drinking what she'd set aside for the yearling
swine. When she was done I could not move.
I don't know why I cannot let the shepherds
starve. They see me coming and quietly
make room beside their fire. I bring Mother's
flour for them to mix in a clay pot with sage, salt,
and powder pinched from a small leather pouch.
Their bread bakes buried in the morning's firecoals.

II.

Giving thanks, the shepherds slash the top crust
with crossmarks. The eldest takes the knife, cuts
the loaf, and gives the first slice to their herding
dog. They sit with me as if I were
one of them and I am glad, forgive me,
to give them Mother's food. I know [End Page 53]
what I have done. And if I'm unforgiven –
I know what oil-soaked wheels wait
patiently for the spark of my kindling limbs
to torch the flames that turn the spokes forever.
I was born with boils and a twisted hand,
but hunger is the gift you've given me –
forgive me, Mother – I refuse to share.

Mother, Daughter

Side by side, raking the fork tines gently,
we press sweet crumbs into the ramekins,
filling each precious cache, grated zest
clinging to lemon fingers. Let the bossy
fantan crews waiting outside our doors
stamp their feet impatiently. This takes time.
Sugar, milk, eggs, crushed almonds, and flour

hand-stirred with peach twigs picked in early March,
clipped, then slightly frayed. Let them ask. You nod
towards the Madagascar vanilla beans dredged
in sugar, pull open the Dutch doors, brass handles
burnished by your great grandmother's firm grasp –

cool despite the heat – and rearrange the bricks. Thank
God for your long arms, your father's favorite forge!
No two batches are the same. Every counter's stacked
with pots and pans, dented stainless steel, copper
streaked by flame and citrus steam. We sink our faces
close, inhale. There's no recipe for this.

Christianne Balk is the author of Desiring Flight (Purdue UP) and Bindweed (Macmillan). Her poems appear in Ploughshares, the Atlantic, Harper's, Willow Springs, and Alaska Quarterly Review.


...

pdf

Share