T H E G O L D E N L A B Y R I N T H
The doe drains a blade of the shadow of her fawn
amidst hunger and disappears inside the rabbit stories.
Some days the sky is clear enough for love, and
the stars falling inside my mother’s veins.
When she was still alive, she used to press
apples in my palm every afternoon and searched
for birds in the moist air so that I could imagine
their meanings on the roof of my mouth.
Twice a week, when he entered her room, I often mistook
her voice for mine. But that never stopped her from sipping
lukewarm water later in the afternoon to help her words rush
back and forth to tell me -"This is how it works." She then
braided my hair with the short, orange light of the room
leaving traces of her naked bandage on my nose and cheek.
I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t want to salt the yes
she said every morning whenever I asked her to
build a dollhouse to escape, but our bodies always
ended in different shapes when he tried to complete
her eyes, my throat. However, there was no landscape
yet to dust the wind that swept the dead leaves of our porch.
But when we were victims to nothing, we allowed the
garden to fill with fruits and seeds—
they opened on our fists as we slept in the
wide eyed sun. But the freedom will recede -
soon she’ll bruise into her bones again once
she realizes that she can’t wither anywhere else.
There’s not much that a skin can hold
once the looking glass begins to turn over and over.
K A T H E R I N E B A R R O N
The Jane Lumley Prize '15 : Winner
Katherine Barron is a musician, stage actor, writer, illustrator and an occasional gardener. Her performances have been covered by The New York Times and The Huffington Post, and her paintings have been presented in various exhibitions in the US and the UK. She lives with a her husband and daughter in a spacious house built in 1952, and is currently working on her debut full length poetry collection.
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