by Annette Sisson
After the storm she finds a broken hatchling
under the camellia, a cardinal, gray, dull
tinge of red. The chick is still. Too late
to tuck it back into the nest’s curved mouth,
moss and crumpled leaves. Her mom died
last August—now Mother’s Day bruises her.
Flung from their stalks, peony petals daub
the pale sidewalk, stain it fuchsia. As a girl
she sifted through the patent leather purse,
retrieved tissue, a plastic tube, bright
cherry, placed them in her mother’s right hand,
the other clutching the steering wheel. Their ritual—
Mama’s quick touch-up as they drove to church,
lipstick blots collecting on the vinyl dash.
Today she watches cloud cover ease off,
scuffs bits of blossom with the edge of her shoe.
They stay in place, petals bonded to stone.
::
Annette Sisson lives in Nashville, TN, where she teaches at Belmont University. Her poems appear in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Rust & Moth, The Penn Review, ONE Art, The Shore, and many other journals and anthologies, including Terrapin’s What the House Knows and Tupelo’s Milkweed Anthology. Her second full-length book, Winter Sharp with Apples, was published by Terrapin Books in October 2024, and her first, Small Fish in High Branches, was published in May 2022 by Glass Lyre Press. In 2024 her poem “Deep in Milkweed” was a finalist for the Charles Simic Prize, and two others were nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Visit her website.
Image: Mak
ID: light pink camellia flower.
Psaltery & Lyre 