Return as Black Currant

Because she bleeds dark jelly and French liqueur,
because she won't rise

to the stand of red alders,
she waits
for the devil's breath, that ocean-shunt air
from the coast,

to salt her body
ragged in its new forest, its high shade
space under persimmon. Before,

on her deathbed, she swore to return,
remembering

how black currant flowers grow in strange

bouquets, their berries
holding the smallest bones,

how it would take
only a ghost breath to move them.

It's impossible
to keep her from sliding out

seeds into that first layer of snow—
white on white—
femurs for strength

through winter. A little wine puckers
her mouth, her smile's
blood corners. There's no

westerly wind just yet, and the deep green
currant leaves begin
to sing on their small saws.

Copyright © 2009 Anna Journey All rights reserved
from Barn Owl Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission