LINDSEY D. ALEXANDER
Saudade [Unspill the Salt]
Think of my hair
in the light:
how it’s tangled and tosses
itself over my eyes
so preciously. I planned it
that way. It’s hard
leaving, yes, and slowly,
too—the horse moving like
the old kind
that gives pony rides: so slow,
it knows its route. Salt
moving forward, salt
looking back. It was always like
a prism hanging in the kitchen
window with us,
and surprise. But somehow
now it just got unhung.
How to unring--
to unwarp the weft
from what we’ve been
At the Edge of a River
We watch the locks control the tired water--
too old to let itself
We stretch our legs. We are—for once--
I wonder does my mother ever wonder,
standing here by the river,
if the water gets that certain weary-hopeless
the way we humans sometimes do?
Inside her head, is it muddy? Are the deer there
like the deer in mine? Do they make the same eye contact?
I am half her-animal, half other-animal.
Rivers don’t age like us, do they?
A mother’s undertow--
Paddle boat, canoe, unlucky fishermen crowd our sandbar.
We leave it
like the barges that are long and red and go another way now.
LINDSEY D. ALEXANDER's poems have appeared in Colorado Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, Third Coast, and other magazines. In 2014, she was a scholar at the month-long NEH Institute "Reconsidering Flannery O'Connor." She lives in Tennessee. For more, visit her website.
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