Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue Two

Faith S. Holsaert

The Last Day

— after Lucille Clifton I will ride a freckled mare Into the sturdy mother oaks, the bending birches of the aunt, the moody autumn maple of the father, the dogwood gleaming from inside she bitch lover I chose. The trees hear me pass and wish they had hands. The oak laments. Her arms break with her reaching. The wasp aunt yearns for the Jewish nieces she borrows each summer and her brother has lost his crimson leaves, but the dogwood is pink to her roots with rage.