Samhain by Laurie Byro
After she died, she became part of the lake,
the trail we used to hike before she got sick.
Her eyes were flinty bits of mica stone, how
we climbed and searched that first year, jabbing
our sticks into rock walls, watching for creatures
to come out. She never believed like I did; yet,
the Others moaned that my instincts were right.
Was the mouse, nose alert to the coming winter,
part of her now? Her arms, writhing snakes,
Medusa-hair, blackness where her breasts
used to be, genitals smoothed bark-brown, moss
and stone and the relentless flapping birds.
Now, my hands throb warm as I peel an apple
found just past the gnarled nose of tree. Who
would guess that on this Samhain Eve, we would
get a snowfall of seven inches? Who would know
that her eyelashes would open and close like
the last vagrant heron’s wings, snow tipping
its feathers whiter? By morning, she melts like a bad
witch turning the leaves slick, the berries sodden.
Laurie Byro's short stories and poetry have appeared in dozens of presses including: Loch Raven Review, The Literary Review, Triggerfish, The Paterson Literary Review, and the 7th Quarry (from Wales) among others. Laurie was named one of the “Poets of the Decade” by the IBPC competition. Her work was recently published in three anthologies including: St. Peter's B-List. Laurie has been facilitating Circle of Voices,'poetry discussion in NJ for over 15 years, currently at the West Milford Library where she is Poet in Residence.
After she died, she became part of the lake,
the trail we used to hike before she got sick.
Her eyes were flinty bits of mica stone, how
we climbed and searched that first year, jabbing
our sticks into rock walls, watching for creatures
to come out. She never believed like I did; yet,
the Others moaned that my instincts were right.
Was the mouse, nose alert to the coming winter,
part of her now? Her arms, writhing snakes,
Medusa-hair, blackness where her breasts
used to be, genitals smoothed bark-brown, moss
and stone and the relentless flapping birds.
Now, my hands throb warm as I peel an apple
found just past the gnarled nose of tree. Who
would guess that on this Samhain Eve, we would
get a snowfall of seven inches? Who would know
that her eyelashes would open and close like
the last vagrant heron’s wings, snow tipping
its feathers whiter? By morning, she melts like a bad
witch turning the leaves slick, the berries sodden.
Laurie Byro's short stories and poetry have appeared in dozens of presses including: Loch Raven Review, The Literary Review, Triggerfish, The Paterson Literary Review, and the 7th Quarry (from Wales) among others. Laurie was named one of the “Poets of the Decade” by the IBPC competition. Her work was recently published in three anthologies including: St. Peter's B-List. Laurie has been facilitating Circle of Voices,'poetry discussion in NJ for over 15 years, currently at the West Milford Library where she is Poet in Residence.
