Susan L. Leary
Strawberry Season
The concept of again is tragic, humility as undervalued
as the accurate perception of a woman’s terror. Again, I am owed
a meal, but when winter arrives in the shape of an apology, I cease
to forage my bones. A dog barks in the apartment
below me & the phone rings promptly at noon. What a mother
knows is very random & particular at once. It’s strawberry season.
What we can & cannot pray for. Which cardigan. To wash
the blood out with cold water. When fate stops her weeping,
it’s all uphill from there. On the desk, the sun’s heart exploding
inside the torso of an iris. Across the forest floor, a rabbit’s bursting into dust
& echo. There’s something to be said for those who say no to beauty,
who provide the flowers their own muses. Thank god for my mother,
her minor invention of language. Only a man’s truth shudders
at the feet of lions. Not all animals go somewhere to die.
Susan L. Leary (she/her) has authored four poetry collections, most recently Dressing the Bear (Trio House Press, 2024), selected by Kimberly Blaeser to win the 2023 Louise Bogan Award. Her work appears in Indiana Review, Superstition Review, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere. Her website is www.susanlleary.com.
photo by Sean Kilpatrick