A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
The berries on the holly burn
like drops of blood. The cold sticks crack
and still I wait for your return
from far-off, war-torn Iraq. Learn
to read the map that brings you back.
The berries on the holly burn
from where they’ve dropped; in spring a fern
shoots up, rain falls like an attack,
and still I wait for your return
to our neglected plot. I turn
the earth over. It all looks black.
The berries on the holly burn
in season, but all year I yearn
for you. I circle round the track
and still I wait for your return.
They sent a wooden box, your urn,
but not you. Just ash in a sack.
The berries on the holly burn
and still I wait for your return.
Chris Wilson is working toward an MA in English Literature at San Francisco State University and an MFA in Creative Writing at Pacific Lutheran University. Her poems have appeared in Fourteen Hills and Tupelo Press’ online Poetry Project.