Poetry by Beth Gordon

            Rowena Waack CC


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november

the morning I went to unbury her the ground was bitter
ice tentacles invading layers of myth of rare element origin of bone on bone hidden
rivers late-autumn rabbits clumsy and placenta-wet crossed
my path as omen as story foretold I dug my fingers to blood unremembering
her ashes in titanium beneath a quilt that smelled of her eyes this is how the world ends
every day this is how the world is born there was nothing but old
wine in your house and now you are gone from that place drinking elderflowers while every star
is falling into every open orphan mouth catastrophe is certain and welcome
company you tell me to bring Irish coffee and my grandmother’s wedding ring forged
from gold engraved with six initials that I recite in my dreamless sleep we dream
of strangers of slaughter our ancestors labeled murderers and we cannot
deny the throats they slit I show you the pain beneath my fingernails you show me potions
blood orange walnut bitter potatoes fermented into clear white gold

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Bio: Beth Gordon is a writer who has been landlocked in St. Louis, Missouri for 16 years but dreams of oceans, daily. Her work has recently appeared in Into the Void, Quail Bell,Calamus Journal, DecomP, Five:2:One, Barzakh, and others. She can be found on Twitter @bethgordonpoet.

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