12/1/2023 Poetry By Nancy HuggettJames Loesch CC
But the Dark after Rilke Every bird a burden breaking the branch in the darkness that lays flat and heavy, like your limb across my chest, pinning me-- the weight of it. All of my own making: carefully crafted fractions of control cracking into chaos, my fists ripping off the chords of lists that wind their to-dos around my days. Strangling grace and now even love as I shove your flesh from mine, shatter stillness into shards that sharpen all the edges of our words. The world we have been building shimmies and are we willow or spruce? or the bird that sings? Missing My Mother There is no one to call now. No one to say I know, I know. It’s all buck up and this too shall pass. It’s all hold on, shake it off, tomorrow’s a new day. It’s all frame and function and lawn chairs gathered in a circle for the Fourth of July and I’m that passel of fireworks in a cardboard box at the end of the driveway waiting for the random rogue spark to ignite the whole ke-bang. Nancy Huggett is a settler descendant who writes, lives, and caregives on the unceded, unsurrendered Territory of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation (Ottawa, Canada). Thanks to Firefly Creative, Merritt Writers, and not-the-rodeo poets, she has work published in EVENT, Gone Lawn, One Art, Pinhole, Rust & Moth, and The New Quarterly. |
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December 2024
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