Shopping Cart
    items

      ←

      March 19, 2021Farm SonnetKitty Carpenter

      The barn roof sags like an ancient mare’s back.
      The field, overgrown, parts of it a marsh
      where the pond spills over. No hay or sacks
      of grain are stacked for the cold. In the harsh
      winters of my youth, Mama, with an axe,
      trudged tirelessly each day through deep snow,
      balanced on the steep bank, swung down to crack
      the ice so horses could drink. With each blow
      I feared she would fall, but she never slipped.
      Now Mama’s bent and withered, vacant gray
      eyes fixed on something I can’t see. I dip
      my head when she calls me Mom. What’s to say?
      The time we have’s still too short to master
      love, and then, the hollow that comes after.

      from #70 - Winter 2020

      Kitty Carpenter

      “I’ve always been entranced by the way language in poetry cuts to the core of every aspect of our humanness. Poetry is less sipping tea on the bank of a calm river and more being suddenly dumped in and nearly drowned under the current; when you come out the other side, you’re never really the same. I read and write poetry because that act helps me feel a little closer to understanding things in the world that don’t always make sense.”

      →