by Tina Kelley
I have seen that color in the buds on the trees,
that color that reminds me of blood but is not blood,
spring but not spring. It travels north, 15 miles a day.
All I want to do is meet this creature inside me,
know if it is a son, another daughter, but if I met it
today it would die. It must stay til the light lasts longer,
til the trees bud out, til first fireflies and womb weather,
when heat and humidity outside match in.
So I watch goldfinches ripen, brighter than dandelions,
brighter than new tennis balls, brighter each day
from eating blackest thistle seed. Just two weeks ago
grayish brown, dull as females. Now, almost Easter.
When they are brighter than first fireflies perhaps.
When honeysuckle blooms. (Honey and suckling together,
I never noticed that pairing.) When we get deep enough
away to hear the woodthrush, you and I, perhaps then
you
will be ready
for my gift,
your birth.
Tina Kelley’s poetry chapbooks and collections include The Gospel of Galore (winner of the Washington State Book Award), Ardor (winner of the Jacar Press chapbook competition) and Abloom and Awry, now available from CavanKerry Press. Her work also appears in Best American Poetry 2009. She is a former New York Times reporter.