'Sarah Brewer'

In 1937 a window in heaven opened
and a little flock of birds flew out
into the sunlight.

By the time they had reached Kibler, Arkansas
they had taken the form
of peacocks
and they flew in through my kitchen window.

They strutted and preened
and flaunted their feathers

and then
glancing at me once

they disappeared
down the breezeway.

I knew they had gone into the boys room.

I could not move.

Beneath piles of hand-me-down quilts
fever was gently bathing my boys bodies
like a good mother.

My two year old tow-headed cowboy
my sweet tempered four year old
and my six year old who looked just like his daddy

dreamed heavy dreams
deep into the darkness.

I knew they would wake up
when they heard the birds calling them.

I could not move.

My boys who had never
seen such birds
obediently rose from their beds.

As I stood in my icy kitchen
shaking from my head
down to my swollen belly

the twins inside me
kicked hard

and my three boys
straddling the backs of the birds

glanced at me once

and then flew out of my kitchen window.

The little flock of birds
re-entered the window of heaven
a few minutes before dark.

 "Now"

I remember
what is was like to love
before there was touching
and trembling
and promises to keep
I remember what it felt
like to love someone
for their heart
and their voice and their
spirit and how it
felt to connect to a soul
and not want to let go of it
even for a few hours
a few days
when there was no sexual
burning and yet
a clear exchange
of fire and water
and earth
when it was air
and wind and rain
and cold mud between
my toes and laughter
when we were children and
we loved and knew
nothing else
and knew nothing wrong
before they told us
what the rules were
what the parameters were
what our role would be
when we learned to fit in
to the box and enjoy
ourselves and love our
hearts out
and store our souls
away for safe keeping
but I remember now
what it was like
to love for the sake of love
to be a child again
to pick flowers and sing
songs and be free from
the rules that tell us
no
I remember now. . .

"kindred spirits"

we are the children
playing in the sandbox
making mud pies
picking purple berries
running barefoot
dancing laughing
screaming
in
a
down
pour
making shelters out of old quilts
and strawless brooms
mud between our toes
lying in the tall grass
looking at the stars
we are the lovers
who touch in spirit
playing
in the valley
of the mind
together
in a land
that has no boundaries

©Rebecca Buchanan 2006
 

 

Rebecca Buchanan is an award-winning poet from the United States. She has had many poems published in literary journals in the states, including the Rockhurst Review, a Fine Arts Journal , and Motherbird Anthology. Her chapbook Sweet Woman of Fire was first published by Motherbird Publishing in 1993. She is currently working on a spoken word c.d. to be released this summer. She writes almost exclusively for Moongate Internationale. For more poetry from Rebecca Buchanan: www.motherbird.com

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