by Melissa McKinstry
–i.m. Scott McKinstry, 1938-2020
O, to be an ornament
on that curved branch. Not
bird but milk-anointed
fig, to build a home within,
like a worshipping wasp.
I know Isaiah’s urging to turn
swords into plowshares.
Every day I read this verse
penned by my father
on the back of a photo
propped on my kitchen shelf.
He cradles my baby
in the crook of his neck,
his gnarled hand on her downy head.
His eyes closed. This
is the purple fruit.
::
Melissa McKinstry earned her MFA in poetry at Pacific University. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Alaska Quarterly Review, Rust & Moth, december, Tahoma Literary Review, SWWIM, earned honorable mention for the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize as well as contests at Crab Creek Review and The Comstock Review, has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize, and is forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal.
Image: serjan midili
Image description: Branches of a fig tree.
Psaltery & Lyre 