12/4/2022 Poetry By Terin Weinberg R. Miller CC
ARRYTHMIC DEMANDS I wish your heart’s irregular beat would stop rocking me to sleep. I want you whole in the morning, next to the mulberries, for your organs to agree. I’m jolted awake by your teeth grinding to a fine dust. I want you whole & in the harvest moon’s light. I want to guide you by hand to the bottom of the riverbank. I want you & your blood to remain calm after a tussle with wasp’s venom, but your body boils at mere sight. I want to see you unfold into the breeze, see you build a shadow, a cover that competes with my favorite spruce in the horse’s pasture. I want the echo of your branches to guide me to the grass in beating sunlight, for your sleep talking to say something worthwhile for once. I want your whole heart, all mine, fresh & beating to the tune of my whistle. ALTAR There is no death at this altar, but half of my family is rotten from cancer. Our ashes strewn across golf courses, held hostage in urns, sunk to the bottom of the ocean, are asking for more. The diagnoses are stacking up & my bookshelf is filling in the time. I can’t keep track. I need a place to stow the rot, a place for it to grow. I need all sick organs to be quiet. I’m building a place to pray, an altar without death or loss. I pray without thoughts and prayers. I’m tired of packing up their things: fishing tackle, shotguns, rocks we collected & buffed together, a twenty-year old painting of a mermaid not giving a shit on a beach. I’m here giving them away, giving away holding on to them; seeing them, with someone else’s body. Terin Weinberg earned her MFA from Florida International University in Miami, Florida. She graduated with degrees in Environmental Studies and English from Salisbury University in Maryland. She is a lecturer in the English Department at DeSales University. Terin serves as a reader for Beaver Magazine. She has been published in journals including: The Normal School, Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment, Red Earth Review, Dark River Review, Split Rock Review, and Waccamaw. Comments are closed.
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