Archive for January, 2009

Mustard Seeds

April Bulmer

Betty

The sweetness of her voice raised in song. She is a weaver of words. Where my hoarse breath is only a sound. But the tongues of trees…

Dot

We lie after touch on a narrow bed in a white loneliness which is God. Two piles of neatly folded blankets at our feet. And music from a wedding. But I dream of mourning birds and smoke. (For my heart is a broke seed too late for planting. And yours, come night, is a hard flat moon losing hours and light.)

Babs

My body was a gentle boat, your rock and forth. And you were a hard strange god. Your words spilled out like waves into sand. And wild leaves fell against you, kneeling upon me as night fell. But moonlight slayed you, its light a sword between your ribs and against the palms of your hands.

Annamae

I could not weep, I say, or moan. Though we have been lost to each other for so long. I did not die like a clock, wind down. For my heart is a bulb, not time, rooted in light and ground.

Ann

I need horses and a slight, quiet man. For I am a bossy old crow, a sort of flamboyant nun. Nights I wrestle with spirit from the cathedral of my soul. And my heart rises like the sun.

But my face is white as the morning moon and I am lonely as the horizon.

These poems are included in April Bulmer’s chapbook, Mustard Seeds (Leaf Press, 2005).

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