Summer 2014: Poetry
Even in February Every Woman Wants to Be a Feast
by Claudia F. Savage
The year dampness trumped the will of the sun. The year apple trees he thought barren clung to the last of their fat fruit. The year even weaker branches had purpose as kindling. That year, he received Jesus. When the snow reached the window he sank into the bathtub water as if he were the source of thaw. Every bird, every cloud, perfect, known. On the mountain there was no room for confusion, uncertainty, misstep. He faced the hill to church as mountain goat, even in rain, ice. He bent to the task of vegetable picking and cotton, though the bag was wider than his slight body. And when the coffer was empty and his mother cried at the kitchen table, he offered his saltiest tears to the snow. Optimism feasted on his heart. He was taught prayers to outlast darkness: gather, save, hope. Late winter, he lay beside me, finally searching for the heat off my body as the snow fell unending. I was a field, ground stiffening with cold. He was not the supple light. Years of him unwilling to lie in my hips bright grass made me his apple tree succumbing to cold. Even metaphor failed us.
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