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April 17, 2017 by The Citron Review

by Maria Terrone

 

There are gray days in fall when occasional light
burnishing the leaves is enough,
and you feel weightless as that light, as if
you could be lifted up, hollow-boned, and watch yourself
following a path through the woods.
What you say to your husband by your side
doesn’t matter, or what he says, or what was said before.
It’s enough to be alone in that preserve, to hear
both faint twitter above and your crunching footsteps below
magnified by the improbable silence.
I know silence can mean a failure of nerve,
and even death. But it must mean more, because I want
to wear that silence like the balm of satin on my skin.

At the bird blind, an open-framed still life
of red-daubed greige; only the cattails are in motion.
I watch the eye of my husband’s camera watch
for signs until a pair of egrets appear and rise
like white exclamation points on the air,
and two blue herons appear over the pond,
moving with the force of a sudden storm.
There are days when it’s enough to break the silence
with the fierce flap of wings.

 

Maria Terrone is the author of the poetry collections Eye to Eye (Bordighera Press); A Secret Room in Fall (McGovern Prize, Ashland Poetry Press) and The Bodies We Were Loaned (The Word Works), and a chapbook, American Gothic, Take 2. Her work, published in French and Farsi and nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize, has appeared in magazines including Poetry, Ploughshares and The Hudson Review and in more than 25 anthologies. In 2015 she became poetry editor of the journal Italian Americana.

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