In a house governed by leather books,
wing-backed chairs,
and whiskey hours,
the girl born in rose light
knows the motherbody sapling lithe
was likely cinched and draped
to bear the weight
of the portrait frame.
What long-dead carpenter’s hand
carved curves into soft wood
and applied
the silken stain?
Even he would have known
to teach his daughters the art
of downcast glances.
A woman’s neck exposed,
lamp-lit unmarred skin,
a lure to draw the suitors in.
But nature lectures
just beyond the house’s
sturdy door, rambles on
regarding predators, the art
of soft stalking.
The girl prefers
her shorter, stocky body made near invisible
by throwing off the belt
and clinging fabrics,
by refusing to bow her head.
Gravitational Forces
The boy born in the shadow
of a compass rose knows
no need for landmarks
or starlight
to find true north.
Set adrift in an autumn field
he navigates
the most efficient route home,
collecting broken
moth wings,
black-tipped feathers,
and hardened bobcat scat,
treasures he will show
his pacing mother
who worries time, her mind
a minute hand
sweeping across
the broad swath of abandoned days.
Together, they measure and weigh
what specimens
the boy captures, make marks
in foreign script,
their private catalog,
numbering what now resides
in the battered
metal cases the fatherbody
emptied and left behind.
Parts Undiscovered
Girls born to wander
know the thrill
of unveiled treasure,
the hoards of golden thread,
silver wound around
the next spool.
They embrace the lacquered box
and run,
let the scuffed compass
bounce
from its braided cord,
convince reluctant fathers
to reveal the codes
in faded script.
The globe spins
on their command.
When the world
would weigh them down
with time’s demands
these girls slip into the dark forest
trail the bobcat
to its den,
a place to offer up the pretty baubles,
a place to settle in.
When the Border is a River Changing Course
The woman born of wheat
and the brown thrasher’s wing
perches windward, rears
back and lets each gust catch
the hem of jacket, skirt, and scarf.
From the concrete pillars
of a crumbling bridge,
the world is a space
swept free. At night, she has rested
her palm against its curve,
the heirloom globe all cool
promise, separation marked
in sure and steady lines.
Somewhere,
behind the woman
a car idles, a decision left unmade,
but for now the wind
has carried that impatient
thrum downstream.
~ ~ ~
Sandy Longhorn is the 2016 recipient of the Porter Fund Literary Prize and the author of three books of poetry. The Alchemy of My Mortal Form, her latest book, won the 2014 Louise Bogan Award from Trio House Press. Her other books are The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths and Blood Almanac. Her poems have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, diode, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Hotel Amerika, The Southeast Review, Tupelo Quarterly, and in many more literary journals and anthologies. Longhorn teaches in the Arkansas Writers MFA program at the University of Central Arkansas, where she directs The C.D. Wright Women Writers Conference. In addition, she can be found online at SandyLonghorn.com