by Ruth Dickey
Swallowing the Sun
I thought I knew all the stories, hoarded them
like coins, polished with fingers and tongue,
but this morning dad and I are talking about poems, days to months
mounding the miles between us.
He says mom would have been tickled to know
you’ve built a life in words. I ask why, always hungry
for more of her, and he tells me she wrote down poems I whispered
and sang before I could write,
kept them gathered for years. This new story, of which
I have no memory, but can imagine, is like swallowing
the sun, eyelids filling with flickers of handwriting,
afternoons honeyed with light. I’m sorry, he says,
I probably threw them out in the move. But I am
only glow. It doesn’t matter, I say, and it doesn’t,
my mom newly refracted, clutching this new piece of us, stunned
there can be any new understandings:
she taught me my words mattered, before I could gather them myself, before
the world could tell me different.
I Find Holes Everywhere
I found my mother in my closet. She was singing words I couldn’t quite make out, folding something large
I followed her voice, found her turning to me, ran surprised to find her
solid, held her swaying,
saying, over and over, I miss you so much, I miss so much,
miss, words blurring and folding
blending as we turned. I found the dog, fur curled in my fists, found the bottom sheet ripped in a long fault.
Maple leaves are flames flinging themselves earthward,
rain lullabies open, my mom sways somewhere
we all fold something, every tree spirals skyward:
I find holes everywhere, hands full of sheets and fur.
Ruth Dickey’s second book, our hollowness sings, is forthcoming from Unicorn Press in May 2024. An ardent fan of dogs and coffee, Ruth’s poems have recently appeared in Cave Wall, Painted Bride Quarterly, StorySouth, SWIMM, Radar Poetry, and Zocalo Public Square. More at http://www.ruthdickey.com