Read More: A brief Q&A with Sharon Pretti
During a Traditional Holiday Meal
Once I looked up the definition of pleasantries: fresh-cut leaves
filling one’s mouth, a bubble’s iridescence let go into air. Anything else
and this ceiling would crack, a small shudder from your gravy boat. Sister,
I liked it better when you were mad. I liked you better. Your edge exact,
the line in a map when a country comes to an end. I’m no good at pretending
to be close. Tonight, your dog, Lola, is the only creature to touch my hand.
It’s true, our mother died. You decided I’d been the one more loved,
daylight descending on my skin and staying. You wanted to be one of her birds,
bright-breasted, an unmistakable crest, anything to make yourself pop
into foreground and focus. Tonight, I blink against the lights you’ve strung
around your window, their on-again, off-again glow. It was me our mother called
the day before her heart tumbled to a stop, me. Tonight, there’s nothing
to save, gristle scraped into a bin. If I spotted you years from now on a boulevard,
its trees just beginning to bud, I’d know your gait, long and determined, bangles rippling
your wrist. Sister, I’d slow down in the shade, a knee-length dress, my shoulders bare.
Not showy, I promise. Quiet as a dandelion, but there.
While Hiking Out of a Ravine
A dead bird up close,
its body the shape of my palm.
I wanted to touch its breastbone,
my littlest finger to the feathers,
the toes curling in on themselves.
This was before I’d prayed
for the last time,
before I knew about the open mouth,
eyelids refusing to close.
When my mother died,
thirty-six hours passed
before I found her on the floor,
stiff-limbed, hands shut
as if she were clutching a coin.
I flipped her hair from her forehead,
unclasped her Madonna and child medallion.
I thought something other than silence
would find me. I sat still
like I did that day, the bird on its side,
a sword fern touching my sleeve.
This was before God slipped
from my ribs and was gone.
The minutes hung like beads
on a string. They glistened.
The bird never knew I was there.
In the time before therapy
fuchsias unfolded inside each thought,
my toes came alive in the overgrowth of summer.
I slept without the light on.
No openless windows, no regurgitated air.
I didn’t question the stars in my veins,
exquisite or not. No grandfather spilling into my room,
no wint-o-green breath scaling my neck.
I dressed in colors then,
pliés and relevés to scaffold the hours,
my arms lifted over my head
like the flags of a promising country.
No chairs arranged in a circle, no experts nodding.
My dog unleashed in a field, broken-eared, a jumper,
devouring the world before she’d obey. […]
Subscribers can read the full version by logging in. |
___________________________________
Sharon Pretti lives in San Francisco, CA. Her work has appeared in numerous journals including Calyx, The MacGuffin, Spillway, The Bellevue Literary Review, and Canary. She has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations and was nominated for the Best New Poets 2024 anthology. She is also an award-winning haiku poet and frequent contributor to haiku journals including Modern Haiku and Frogpond. Sharon is a retired medical social worker and, for many years, she had the pleasure of teaching poetry workshops in a nursing home and at assisted living facilities. Her website is sharonpretti.com
Read More: A brief Q&A with Sharon Pretti