Poetry by Jane Zwart

    Taber Andrew Bain CC



​
Shroud

In the old poem, a woman unravels 
at night what she weaves by day--

a beautiful conceit, even if mostly
things just undo themselves. A day

before the biopsy, my therapist asks
me to tell a story about the next day.

So I close my eyes and imagine rising,
rousing my sons--Is it nexterday?

one used to ask, meaning tomorrow.
I say: here is the list of Wednesday

extras (trumpet, singlet). I say: I will
badger their shoes on, singing To-da-ay,

and if next I wave down the car and kiss 
my boys’ palms, they won’t think Today

we might come home to bad news--
because I am always like this; every day,

the same harried love. But also: 
in this poem, a woman unravels at night.

​


Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, HAD, Ploughshares, and, one other lucky time, Anti-heroin Chic.