by Lily Greenberg
Barred owl calling through kudzu. And kindling. And father she never had. My mother’s god
sings The Needle and the Damage Done through cabin ruins. And Smokey Mountain fog. And
greening the moss. Of course she had a father. In a dream he showed her a sow with dirty piglets
suckling. And biscuits with butter. And my sister’s bed. My mother’s god took her father away
and it was a relief. My mother’s god took her voice away and she became a sow. Sitting with my
mother before the sun, he is silent. My sister is gone. The bread burned. He speaks through a
book my mother carries around. My mother speaks in his voice. Heavenly father. Heavenly
father. He is scrambling the mahjong tiles. He is killing the dogs one by one. Heavenly father.
The dogs come back. My sister is back. I am one of many suckling. Let the dogs stay. Give back
the cabin. Father. Her voice breaking thank you into the morning.
::
Lily Greenberg is a poet from Nashville, Tennessee and the author of In the Shape of a Woman (Broadstone Books 2022). Her work has appeared in New England Review, On the Seawall, Cortland Review, and Eco Theo Review, among others, and she is the 2023 prize winner of the Iron Horse Literary Review‘s National Poetry Month Contest as well as the 2021 recipient of the Dick Shea Memorial Prize for Poetry. Her poetry has been funded by Bread Loaf Writers, ArtsWestchester, and Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance, and she holds an MFA from the University of New Hampshire. She lives in Nyack, New York. Learn more at lily-greenberg.com.
Image: Erica Li
ID: aerial shot of fog over the smokey mountains in fall.
Psaltery & Lyre 