A.M. Brant
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Mermaid
Glisten, water glow, on tail
of scales of gold. Siren song
rising over the mountaintop
town. Candle woman sun up.
She is calling to you. Can you hear
her song? She is dancing on the Ohio,
her arms open, her breasts open,
eyes open, mouth loud. She is calling
to you, listen now. She says
it is too late come to me now
it is too late come to me now
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Call It Rage
Pick a flower
petal petal petal
He loves me he loves me not
He loves me he loves me not
petal petal petal
Become preocuppied
with the picking
with the petals
falling become aware
of the light green fluffs
of tiny left behind
the rim of bulb
Become aware of the residue
on your fingers, thin ash
Wipe the shade on your arm
Focus on the petals wonder
If he loves me if he loves me not
If he loves me if he loves me not
how many flowers believed in
how many boys turned men believed in
wished for, years of girlhood wasted
petal petal petal
Look at the circumference left behind
A bellybutton tethered to an umbilical cord
A string tied to a rock
Root to earth, cut fast
Can we hope to somehow tie these
remnants neatly into a crown?
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A.M. Brant’s poems have appeared in Salt Hill Journal, Blue Earth Review, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere. She teaches writing at the University of Pittsburgh and women’s and gender studies at Carlow University. She lives in Pittsburgh.
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Posted in Boudin 2019: Spring Edition, Poetry and tagged in AMBrant, Poetry