To the dogwood still in bloom,
the dead rhododendron,
the azalea that bleeds
its desire out. In case.
To the birds in jeweled leaves,
drying their feathers, wet
chirps, wet grass, wet ground. To the knot
in my shoulder just at the point
where my mother pinned
my wings, traced with pencil,
snipped free. And those mornings
I bounced chair to chair, angelic,
in a living room shipwrecked
To the skin
I nestle within, as if it were
a womb and I were pregnant
with myself. To my body’s
empty pockets. To beauty, eyeless,
that doesn’t know its name. To the sky.
And my back, wingless. And winged grass.
Patricia Davis’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poet Lore, Salt Hill, Potomac Review, Quiddity, Not Just Air (which selected her as Spotlight Poet and nominated her work for a Pushcart Prize), Tar River Poetry, and Smartish Pace (which named her a finalist for the Beullah Rose Poetry Prize). Her translations of Cuban poetry have been published in Puerto del Sol and the New Laurel Review. She co-authored an award-winning nonfiction book, The Blindfold’s Eyes, and her stage play, Alternative Methods, was produced in New York and in Washington, DC.