Patricia Ann Doneson
in the little bird a song is building
building into being so
its own be-ing so

every woman
has a tree
sitting under her

from the wild long ago childhood
living like it lived in wormy whatness
informed by the whatness of her wood

and the First Mother, the mama tree lady
lady of two lands, autochthon
esse en anima, lives

her deep desire, a syllable intending trees
builds with twigs into words the southern wood
exclusively non relational in terms
To Patricia Ann Doneson, poet
The Felt Sense of Birds stephanie pope
motherhood has counted, without fixity
the shape burning uncontrollably the size
it could not, dared not reduce in space

her space has broken free now, the sound
rushes soaked in seraphim, the sound
curls around the space, a billion light years in

some real nothing you cannot the
ending find so deep the law and
(so much for endings)

this abject shape is her reference point, its deep desire
so’ing the body; what now sings into wood and worm
& without fixity, too, the round legacy, the

deep fissure; don’t ever be afraid of the sound
of matter falling when calling
calls with deepened calling

and falling echoes dying in this legacy
the dead the down pregnancies carry
how will she not the worm from would & taking
 
let’s go down to down-ness in the nest
where abject softness lays
laid gently there and something else
 
conceived, but not conceptual decays
perceived, but not intentional and
having fallen into head

and neck and arms and legs
in curve of person, is law
in the tilt of head, the breath

the eyes and these
recognize you—O eggs
what likeness is the like
 

 

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