A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
They said, and she believed, no one knew.
No one knew
when it was there. When it wasn’t there,
no one knew.
When she asked them what she should do,
no one knew.
When the snow fell, pure and white,
no one knew
there was crimson there. Seaweed there, oh
no one knew.
Opened, emptied, no sweetness there, no,
no one knew
she despaired the lack, the slacked belly.
No one knew.
When her husband wept without sound,
no one knew.
Cynthia Neely is an MFA student at Pacific University, Forest Grove, Oregon. Among her poetry credits are Bellevue Literary Review, Prime Number, Quiddity, Raven Chronicles and San Pedro River Review, as well as several anthologies. She is a recent winner of the Hazel Lipa Poetry Chapbook Prize from Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment. Cynthia was a textile artist before turning to painting and poetry.