Trending »
Related »

3 POEMS – Chelsea Dingman

on December 23 | in Poetry | by | with No Comments

A MEMORY OF WATER
 
It rains because another body has fled
its wounds. It rains because morning is sick
with drought. It rains because only water
has memory. It rains & someone’s husband
or mother or brother has become the past
participle of love. It rains because we must be present
when the world disappears behind cloud. It rains
because we look for our mothers under clotheslines & beds,
nestled inside the throats of birds, as we mother the rain
that wants to bury itself below ground, as we mother
thought & not deed, our gods pulsing like a murder
of crows at a firing squad ceremony. It rains again,
now, because the trees want to feel anything
new. It rains because blood stirs under the surface
of ash. It rains because sadness wants to be
repealed, as the fires we burn become the future.
It rains because silence is the circus we give our children,
while we pray to sorrow to take away the rain
splitting our throats. It rains because everything
fallen once knew joy. It rains because water wants
to originate anywhere but sky as sky breaks
open inside us. It rains because we can’t stop
becoming this world when we are lonely.
 


 
AFTER YOU ALMOST DIED THE FIRST TIME
 
I called your name to hear
a voice like yours echo
in the rime. I called myself back
 
from the lure of a man’s hands, the beggar
moon caught in my throat.
I called you mother. Not Mama.
 
Not Mom. I created distance
in that one word. The hull
& husk of your lung, spooned out.
 
Lobe by lobe, I called breath
an enemy. I was called orphan
by agencies. My father, already dead,
 
as you raised us alone. I called you hero
for awhile, then whore. Then leaf
that can’t return to the tree. Or maybe
 
that was me. I called the days grey
horses. I called it love
when moss overran the pines.
 
I called you through this animal
loneliness. I called you someone
I didn’t want to be. I called you, yesterday,
 
to wish you a good day. The sparrows,
forgetting themselves in the glare
of the windows. I called the day
 
forward to fold over our voices.
I called to say love is evidence
of all that you’ve kept alive.
 


 
INDUCTION
 
Today, a daughter will come,
pale & unprotected,
 
to make me possible.
 
I will be ruled by no other god
but time.
 

Chelsea Dingman is the author of Thaw (University of Georgia Press, 2017),
What Bodies Have I Moved (Madhouse Press, 2018) and a forthcoming book of poems, Through a Small Ghost (University of Georgia Press, 2020)
Pin It

Related Posts

« »

Recent Posts

News

THE SACRED GROVE –  [...]

[new_royalslider id="17"] Ana Flores is a sculptor and ecologist. Her work is informed by how place an

Safia Elhilo

2 Poems

Michele Robinson\'s Art [...]

Let Me Straddle Your Mind

X.J. Kennedy

The Crusader

Why did you leave bring m [...]

Yeah bring our electric shaver back, I bought it we shaved each others back it was important to me and

Kwame Dawes

Kwame Dawes

BEFORE YOU – Kwame  [...]

1 Yes, we were country, lived in shotgun shacks, where the road loses its way to dirt and live oaks

MENSTRUAL FLOWERS – [...]

[new_royalslider id="11"] Courtesy of the artist and Mizuma Art Gallery  

WHAT THE WOMB ISN’T [...]

         "Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leav

JUNOT DIAZ

Junot' Diaz and Edison, NJ

EDISON, NEW JERSEY – [...]

The first time we try to deliver the Gold Crown the lights are on in the house but no on

Rachel Eliza Griffiths [...]

Elegy & Poem

The March on Washington:  [...]

OTHER WORLD: A Conversati [...]

"We are all the other."

I OPEN A BOX

…and find inside a picture, of myself as a child, sitting on a small chair, wearing overalls and sho

Naive Paintings

Raphael Perez

CIRCLES OF THE MOON & [...]

To Alex, on turning two Some say the Ring of Brogar is the Circle of the Moon. There is n

In This Issue

March on Washington An Interview with Cheryl Evans

5 POINTZ: GRAFFITI MECCA  [...]

In a strange twist of what seemed like reverse vandalism, the Graffiti Mecca was painted over.

In This Issue

Forest Gander A Translation

In This Issue

Quassan Castro, poem Grandson to Grandmother

URBAN CANVAS: Wynwood Wal [...]

Wynwood Walls, of Miami has been called "a Museum of the Streets."

Pulaski Skyway

Low like the mean dream of Newark the sky must have seemed to its builders. Rickety now, unhinging, I

THE SPAN & OTHER POE [...]

At last, the extremes of his present methods seemed to offer the happiest avenues. The strengthening

Paul Latorre

5th Limb Poems

Joan Larkin

Poem, Knot

Gina Loring, Def Poetry [...]

Poem, Look This Way

In This Issue

Xue Du, Poem

AT THE END OF THE DREAM I [...]

A woman      in a black kimono      dyed black hair disappeared      behind a black curtain I

Marge Piercy

Poem: Behind the War On Women

Naive Paintings

Raphael Perez

Marie Miazziotti -Gillam [...]

Maria Mizzotti-Gillan

Vicky Dantel

Short Story

In This Issue

Pilar Fraile Amador poem

Quassan Castro

Poem

Lugensky Durosier [...]

Lady Haiti

In This Issue

David Trinidad

In This Issue

Landzy Theodore

In This Issue

Angelo Nikolopoulos

Scroll to top