Today's poem is by Cynthia Marie Hoffman

The Stork

When the stork fishes us out
from the marshes, we are just
opening our eyes to the cloud
of its body wobbling above us
half of it white half of it
black storm, its beak of black
rain stabbing into the waters.
What else could we remember?
The sound of its wings like
umbrellas snapping open
on the wind, the view
from our sling, the air
sliced open and wisping
past the belly of the bird,
whirling on the other side of flight.
The city comes like a barge
lumbering through the grasses.
Chimneys widen and sway
beneath us. The stork
knows the address, the fireplace
at which our mothers
stoop, her arms outstretched.
Her pale hands
signal like a water lily
blooming in the depths.
When the beak
opens, the darkness takes
us, wipes our minds
with soot so there is
only the long fall, the
touch of human skin. Our
boundedness to earth. What
we remember.

Copyright © 2015 Cynthia Marie Hoffman All rights reserved
from Paper Doll Fetus
Persea Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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