Research: Journals
The Journal
Past Issues
27.1
Sandra Kohler
OuttakesThe white creek, the opal sky, the trees bare,
earth open to the harsh light. I’m stunned silent.
I need a shoe, a house, a spade, a fire. It is time
to dig up what has bloomed early and needs
transplanting. Am I talking about my perennials,
my soul, my son? One long hope extends
from me, umbilicus, wound. To rhyme with
found, not ruined. Eating people is back in style.
Someone else is at the piano. The light is brilliant,
exigent: it is more than we can bear; the rapt
auditor has no ear to give. We forgive time
anything but its disappearance. What I miss
is not my son. Everything calls me out, out
of line, off base, strikes me out, refuses to allow
my being home, safe, empty, alone.
