Plattered slivers, curled cinnamon, and the frame of yarrow.
The oily residue of mother’s homemade salad dressing, decanter lid open –
rim, glimmering with oregano feathered oil.
In this one: patina patterned sidewalk,
moss clawing through cracks and the terracotta of ant.
Before peach yearned for sun.
Morning, a bluish light stalking the windows. Contained in the pleats of the curtains.
Somewhere in the yard, the memory of deer circling the field,
dirt still kernelled, full of raccoon skat, paws sinking into brown.
Brenda Beardsley embraces the intersection of poetry, lyric essay, documentary and short prose infiltrated with medicine and social justice. She recognizes that the hybrid form is often a port into grey matter. Her passion is writing about disability as well as sometimes – lately – about Mary Todd Lincoln. Beardsley recently completed her MFA from Goddard College.