April 7, 2013

Blindcreek by Kristin Berger


“a ghost, who holds the creek’s place”
for Val                   
 
Expected snow tonight, but when I look out at 3 am,
the swale slumps under the full-flooding lamplight,
patient as a bed with its sheets turned down.
A cat crosses the street, never knowing threat.
Little coughs here and there in our rooms –
a nightlight in each corner, each dream adjusted.
A river of clouds scour the sky.
 
The children heard the news today that in heaven
ice cream and cake are breakfast, and hair grows back:
there is no sickness. Hail combed the air and we ran
to the windows: pearls choked the gutters
as if the world bloomed all at once, that drift
we called wonder accumulating, then disappearing
with a rattle off the roof –
 
and all the ditches shone under the weight,
never tiring of the joyous slip.





Kristin Berger is the author of a poetry chapbook For the Willing (Finishing Line Press, 2008), co-editor of VoiceCatcher (2011), and curates her blog, Slipstream. Her essays and poems have appeared in Calyx, The Blue Hour, New Letters and Passages North among other publications. Kristin lives in Portland, Oregon.

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