Poetry By Suzanne Edison

Sean Benham CC




Am I breathing fire, or only smoke onto a scene...
    

In the latest edition of human cruelty— ​
front page of the newspaper— 
a blown-up photo of a boy staring at me— 
missing arms.

How do I drink tea, eat eggs, swallow this— 
Auden says; how everything turns away
quite leisurely from the disaster

Let the gray simmer; I’m not puddled yet. I don’t umbrella. I head into wind— 

Where light snarls and soffits under eaves— 
Where time is a step—and a step— 
Where sorrow anchors—no need to hunt—rain croons it.

Fallen leaves and hummingbirds shimmer carmine and emerald. Worms traverse concrete slabs
seeking slivers of soil. Must we replicate the brilliant flight of hummingbirds for drone warfare? 

I don’t know what’s next except the groan of bone on bone, light pocking each step.

The world has potholed my will— ​
Let it be wilded with sorrow’s dregs and renew.
But first, I have a heart to unpack.

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Suzanne Edison’s book, Since the House Is Burning, was published in 2022 by MoonPath Press. Her chapbook, The Body Lives Its Undoing, was published in 2018. Poetry can be found in: The Missouri Review, The Penn Review, Quartet Journal; Terrain.org; The Nature of Our Times; Whale Road Review; Lily Poetry Review; and elsewhere. She lives in Seattle, is an avid gardener, and cloud-watcher. www.seedison.com  


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