A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature: over 400,000 monthly users
The night of her diagnosis
I dreamed her white spiral
like a small galaxy
that rose away
from the hospital gurney
and turned back only once.
With a face like the monk’s face.
Its jagged stones of a riverbed
with water washing over them
like a love that crosses
as a secret planet
to something personal like this loneliness.
Whose magnet is strongest at twilight.
As if an astronaut’s life
had been mine and really I
was torn from the ship
and floating among stars
with home a distant blue glass.
Copyright 2017 Rachel Blum. From Rachel Blum’s book of poems, The Doctor of Flowers, forthcoming from 3: A Taos Press.