Eyes Closed In The Backyard
Aspens rattle like a snake;
I will hold my ground.
A quail trills and skitters;
quickly, under the bush.
The neighbors’ dog and a motorcycle
bark in the distance. Soil smells
of earthworm and mushroom,
the air a thick inhale of pollen,
a hint of lilac and sleepy days ahead.
The breeze can’t quite decide
if it’s cool or warm, Persephone
is hesitating at the threshold.
Light passes in and out.
I too am at the border of some portal
passing through me, twirling
an open leaf in my hand,
calling in a favor from the trees:
don’t let me land; keep me.
The Sea
I tell my daughter, three,
people have different ideas about God.
Some think God is a He or a She.
Neither or Both,
One or Many.
What do you think God is?
I expect some binary answer.
As if she is an overconfident adult
who has been given answers all her life.
An ocean.
She has never seen the sea.
Felt its yawning depths,
shook in its screaming tempest,
witnessed its shocking expanse,
seen it give or take
life away on a whim.
But here we are—floating
through the raging heat and
empty cold of space
on our little rock, spinning around
in the stardust-laced eddies,
graping for our pocket of air,
pulled by the tides of
things that lie beyond our reach.
Save The Koalas
The sky rips into streamers,
black rain pouring out of the depths
of her heart, my daughter has found
we cannot rehabilitate koalas
at our home. There has never been
such a heartbreak, a loss, lamenting
lasts an hour. The world
is an unsympathetic teacher
instructed in cruelty, injustice,
chaos, unhoused baby koalas.
Feelings the size of a hurricane
can move worlds, ecosystems, decades.
Today she is reading to unsocialized cats
at the animal shelter. Tomorrow,
she will cross oceans, storms,
and the harshest of landscapes
to try to set things right.
Window
My daughter says:
my knees have eyes,
two purpling bruises winking up
at her from knobby sockets.
They close to kneel and pray to moths,
give sermons to the ants and aspens,
chase quail across the yard,
stay, they plead, not knowing birds
are skittish about small gods.
They butterfly kiss tall grasses
and sharp bushes, wanting to feel it all,
taking the brunt of the pain,
your window into what is possible.
When I Say Community Is Resistance
I mean, please ask me to watch
your sick kid so you can vote,
I mean, tell me how your heart
bleeds when your husband loses
his government job. I mean
I’ll show you where to find out
how your representative voted,
and you tell me about
the protest next weekend.
Research shows providing facts
makes people double down
on incorrect information,
that stories, empathy, and social pressure
are a better conduit for reconsideration.
What I mean is tell aunt Marge
we don’t say that anymore. I mean, I’ll
remind you that our Mormon ancestors
crossed the border into Mexico in 1847,
to flee to safety before that place was called Utah.
I mean, tell me your story the way a wildfire
strikes a thirsty forest, the way spring runoff
feeds the whole valley, the way my child
tells me she’s seen a shooting star
for the first time, nauseous with wonder.
What I mean is: tell me I’m not alone.
Wake
Empty trees stand, bony fingers
grasping at the thought of birds
and tendrils of spring, only ghosts
have been growing in this forest.
The weight of waiting for spring
is crushing, but winter is tucking
into a sluggish sleep. You won’t see
the trees wake just yet—smell the soil
ripening as roots start churching
and sunlight tangles into your frigid hair,
waking what you thought
were mistaken memories.
Poetry by Jessica Aure Pratt
Jessica Aure Pratt is an occupational therapist who lives in Utah, where she enjoys camping and hiking with her family and friends. Her poems often reflect her experiences with parenting, nature, social issues, and many facets of spirituality.
