Dear Birmingham

By Gabrielle Bates

I’ve been visiting again
the cemetery
with a sunken southern corner.

Fish smaller than first teeth, birthed from the soil,
maneuver in the glaze
where rain pools, covering the lowest stones.

            Behind him, in a cracked white tub,
my knees to his sides,
left ear pressed to
the stack of bones in his neck,

I was once so terrified of my own contentment
I bit my shoulder
and drew blood there

                        to the surface—past it—

What I have wanted most
is many lives. One for each longing,
round and separate.

Sometimes I bring figs here, asphyxiating
in plastic, for their distant echo
of your humid, ghost-flesh air
shouldering the leaves—that almost-a-human
air—               

            I was born in autumn
as it fled underground
to be fed to a body
of water that only swallows.

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on whatsapp
Share on telegram
Share on email

Read More Poetry

Ode to a Nightingale By John Keats

Ode to a Nightingale By John Keats My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some

A Red, Red Rose By Robert Burns

A Red, Red Rose By Robert Burns O my luve’s like a red, red rose,That’s newly sprung in June;O my luve’s like the melodieThat’s sweetly

Download
Get a copy sent to your email right NOW!
Free Poetry Editing
Checklist & Guidelines
Download Free Checklist
Download
Get a copy sent to your email right NOW!
Free Poetry Editing
Checklist & Guidelines
Download Free Checklist
Join Our Family & Subscribe To Our Newsletter
Privacy Policy: This information will never be shared with third parties.
Subscribe Now!
Join Our Family & Subscribe To Our Newsletter
Privacy Policy: This information will never be shared with third parties.
Subscribe Now!