A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
I sold her bed for a song. A song of yearning
like an orphan’s. Or the one knives carve into bread.
But the un-broken bread song too. For the song rivers
sing to the ferryman’s oars — with that dread in it.
For a threadbare tune: garroted, chest-choked,
cheap. A sparrow’s, beggar’s, a foghorn’s call.
For the kind of song only morning can slap on love-
stained sheets — that’s what I sold my mother’s bed for.
The one she died in. Sold it for a song.
From A New Hunger by Laure-Anne Bosselaar, published by Ausable Press, copyright 2007 Laure-Anne Bosselaar. Reprinted by permission of the author.