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    Slope of the Child Everlasting
    Slope of the Child Everlasting
    Slope of the Child Everlasting
    Ebook104 pages40 minutes

    Slope of the Child Everlasting

    By Laurie Kutchins

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    About this ebook

    Laurie Kutchins' last BOA title, The Night Path, sold through its 1st printing of 1500 copies. She is widely respected in the poetry world and regularly included in anthologies and periodicals including The New Yorker. Her use of clear language and recognizable archetypes will resonate with a wide readership of regular poetry readers as well as new poetry readers and students. AWARDS CONTINUED: Educational Leave and Research grants from James Madison University, and residencies at MacDowell, the Ucross Foundation, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBOA Editions Ltd.
    Release dateMay 1, 2007
    ISBN9781938160004
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      Book preview

      Slope of the Child Everlasting - Laurie Kutchins

      Togwotee

      Atop this white divide be still, be the horned owl after hunger.

      Marry my little ear to a stone in the wind’s two-ocean river.

      Churn me open, spawn of death, spine of summer thunder.

      Bring mud and hummingbird back to rock, cloud, river.

      Then teach me winter. Let me learn leaving and returning are the same

      Yearning of breath: you can go anywhere from here murmurs upriver.

      Remember mother-of-pearl, father wading out to fish the sandbar.

      Remember silt and eggs, the child of clay, the slope below the river.

      Let mouth be our meeting, brother to the ocean’s inland quiver,

      Sister into snow driven seven directions down river.

      Song of the Turtle Unburrowing

      Was it the sweet smell

      of the thalia daffodil

      that woke me,

      the ruckus of the garden lunging

      back into the world,

      was it the urge

      of the bloodroot?

      Under leaf-mold,

      under old grass cuttings

      beside the southern

      brick of a house

      my blunt red eyes

      have opened.

      Not the bright smiling red

      of cardinals flashing

      in the leafing woods

      not the redbud red—

      double doses of beauty—

      not me.

      I was always the earth’s

      brown-red, almost

      bereft green,

      always the stone’s

      circular endurance.

      Am I loved?

      I dreamed all winter

      I lived inside the soft

      red cup of the tulip.

      I was alchemical

      without shell,

      my shadow so gold

      it could blind.

      But look,

      I still come back

      like rock

      caked with mud.

      Deep in the subtle

      mulch I risk

      the spring wind

      teasing my beak

      as if it wished

      I were the robin

      flittering to remake

      the nest in the mock

      orange shade

      I’ll summer under.

      If I had song

      nimble enough

      for the sky

      how quick

      the mockingbird

      would lift it,

      my earthborn music

      how quick

      it would fall and

      burrow back.

      Skin

      Everything has a voice, even the skin

      the black snake left beside the house

      the day the golden tulips bloomed

      and overpowered the sun. Never seen,

      that snake leaves its skin behind

      each spring like a secret gift

      no longer dark or urgent without

      its body. Oh

      look at me, I’ve grown

      and grown more beautiful, its voice

      thralls from the grass, all

      its language new and moving

      in the skin like thunder

      gathering into a noon

      yet to form:

      Have you heard me

      down in the ductwork

      of your house

      living on mice?

      Have you lived yet

      a day without fear?

      If not skin, what

      will you come to shed?

      April Nights

      Moon, like a husk of corn in the making.

      It’s empty again, small farmhouse across the road.

      The white clapboard glowing its own.

      Wide-eyed and croupy at four A.M., outside in my arms,

      my toddler who is learning to talk stops coughing,

      notices over us the whisker of moon

      and wheezes, where’s grandpa?

      These nights in the country,

      once the dogs are quiet: so much silence

      and then a whole question,

      a car making the curve

      or a blouse of wind sounding like the sigh

      of someone pulling through a coma,

      at last the other side.

      And the moon again. Husk in the making.

      The Voice Outside

      What was it

      the voice said to no one

      a few moments ago?

      I was walking across the grass

      crossing from shed to house,

      I was going

      to write it down.

      It’s April

      and I was

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