Dusk by Margo Berdeshevsky This is the place. No chairs. A woman who is choosing has sent a petal from her bloom of conscious closing.
The woman who is choosing when -scratches vellum. The rook stands. The woman in the nest of the phoenix hovers nearer her edge like that brood of birthing
opal-throated pigeons in an empty flower trough, thirsty, one stair above my sill, breaking their shells one by
one. She repeats my words from dusk in a jungle where medicine leaned small against thorn trees. Each poison growing in a forest
lives beside its antidote, we said. I am still eager, I said. Or the scent of hyacinth. The woman remembering, who is
choosing when to die will curl before leaves have blood-burned September. Surrender by starvation, she doesn't name her illness
only how many days. Three more. The woman in worn white cotton washed us in a tide pool, brewed petals, shouted under
egrets at the edge of rain. Bon voyage to me & love life as you live it she scribbles blue before her breath ends a night and a day and the broken slant dawn.
The woman who was choosing when to die. Too young to be skeletal, skin taken wing. Bone no longer needed. Dove. Fire-eyed. Distant. Opal.
The root does not care where her water comes from. Here is another thirsty body. Broken into morning. |
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Copyright © 2013 by Margo Berdeshevsky. Used with permission of the author. |
About this Poem: "A woman I once knew many years before-suddenly wrote to me to say that she had come across a poem of mine that had been meaningful to her, and that by the time I received her card, she would no longer be in the body. I began this poem, not knowing if it could be reply or elegy. One week later, I heard that it was the latter."
Margo Berdeshevsky |
Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org. |
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