a monday poem that i found to share:




The Wounded Angel, 1903
after Hugo Simberg



Walk the treeline, higher

than before, where the frost covers each rootbed. Dig
for the rotten fruit, lay it in your hand. Touch

the red berried hips of the branch's cradle. Dusk,

and the sky irons. Listen: a bird-stir and the build
of God in your breath. In the garden,

the wind knocks you into blind

slumber. Each torn wing folds into

the arms that rescue it. Two children

wait for the earth to grow

back into you, bring your sorrows

to the shore. There,

they reed-wash your halo, tie onion blooms
to your wrist. There is nothing they miss—

how the current moves through you,

sweeps mud into your throat, brightens
each bruised eye. Look away from this, your river-

locked voice, the threat of the far bank.



Amanda Auchter


Crab Orchard Review
Winter/Spring 2007