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Micropoetry by Sharon Webster | #thesideshow

Sharon Webster

HANDS WERE BIRDS

I thought
the leafy shadows

on the window
glass were birds.

I thought the
light was birds. I

thought the liquid
somersault

of dark and light
was flight or soft

grey abandon.
Birds? Fingers?

What pattern
Blinks? I thought

they were my
hands turned, re-

turned. They
are.

Since my my mother died

 

Since my mother died,
she’s taken up residency
here,
in my
left hand.
She’s re-
shaped it
completely: her
long
fingers on my cup,
her loopy grasp
on the water faucet,
her sensitive aches. And when I
look in the mirror, where she lives now
too, I say out loud, Oh, Mom!
bewildered by this change of address,
her visitation here,
and our long unfinished
walk together.

 

THE VISIT, OLD FRIEND LOST

Her hands on the steering wheel: I can see her hands on the
steering wheel. Somewhere in this tangled Florida interstate,
her hands. It is right that she live here among so many blossoms.
With the sea, another blossom, sprawled and continual, the slow
shape of a whisper. With hibiscus and disarrayed palms, her hands.
Alone in my car, I clutch my map. The place we’re to meet
crawls there in blue and red. From a bridge, weird primordial birds
plunge sun-scalded, into the glossy waves – a sudden shape,
all want. It takes a lot of tongue to say the word “lush.” Lemon
tree, magnolia, thick lizards on the salty earth. Her hands.
Her hands endeared her to me, her long white hands feeling
for something always made of air.

TWO NOVEMBERS

The loveliness  of  this  unending  rain,
November,  Rebecca’s wet,  black eyes,
night.  The   fact   of   things:  wine  and
funny – colored  berries,  sand  colored
crust under the apples, Deanna’s hands
around the  music and  what  enters  us
all.  Rain, a  window  made of rain and
the  rainy  skin  of  rain  soaked  texture
of laughter  and  the  slanted  reflection
of   we   letting  the  texture  take  over.

~

This road leads to November,
unfinished
chores, ice floes in my teeth,
frozen
trees, the men I’ll never know in the
garden
he kicks the frozen dirt says the word,
“verdant, “
then, “birds.” So much darkness, he
cried
for half an hour in the dream I
kissed him.


 About the author:

self-portrait-in-microwave-double-cropped-copySharon Webster is a mixed media visual artist and poet. Her book of poems and art, Everyone Lives Here, was published by Fomite Press in 2014. Her sculptural work creates poignant images of the world as seen from within & involves almost any material you can think of. Webster taught Word and Image and studio art classes at the college level for a decade – and has worked with developmentally challenged adults for many years.

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