Fingers chilled to the bone
a familiar refrain makes
a curve around my ribs
I am going to do it
Wood turns to ash
skin charrs but doesn’t
warm. Walnut
trees survive snow
I know
because of the woodpecker
a bird I’d only read of
Alive in my dead backyard
I am only eleven years but
my body twists into a mangled
twenty-four-year-old carcass
I sing a little refrain
I am going to do it
pomegranate trees buried
all chirping and howling dead
I’m going to do it.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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