Vox Populi
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Tayve Neese: Inside her muscle, a blossom,
a tumor. She felt it turn to pomegranate. Each night one seed eaten by a grackle who rose from her chest, intoxicated. She thanked the bird. Over many months praised its thick contorted beak, its precision. As summer slipped to winter, she thought she may never again smell a gardenia. In her mind they all seemed crumpled pieces of paper she had tossed away out of carelessness. This is what the tumor had done, reduced the whole world to nothing but metaphor, reminded her of overlooked, intricate beauty. She thanked it. And although her closest friends were unable to look at her, how hairless and rodent-like she had become, she had the grackle. Nightly it returned home.
Tayve Neese is the author of Locust (Salmon Poetry). She is the Executive Editor and Co-founder of Trio House Press.
Copyright 2020 Tayve Neese
Vox Populi 
I was feeling pretty good about myself. Like, hey, I wrote a good poem today. And then I read this one. And I was grateful, because it made my day, made my afternoon, and reminded me there’s always something deeper, clearer, more beautiful somehow, to reach for. And it’s the reaching, that’s grace. We tend to think the grace notes lie in stillness. But I’m not so sure anymore. I think this is what Marie Howe meant when she said that love is an action.
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Thanks, Oscar!
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Thank you.Love this.
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Oh, yes. I didn’t have a grackle, but made it.
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Thank you Vox Populi for introducing me to new favorite poets
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