January Detour
I am up to my kneecaps
in burrs. You peel chestnuts
whole over an open
bin—one peel in
with the silver flint
to your palm, and
the fear slinks. What
are you remembering?
Your mother takes over
the quiet labor, your
father in the kitchen
with a metallic voice.
The tinny drawl
carries up the splinter
banister, the light
bleeds from the basement
to the floorboards. We
walk to the cemetery
at the top of the property—
an English garden overgrown
with pale ox tail reeds. We
talk of bringing colored pencil
and sheer paper to the tombstones.
We will honor 1830 and lives lost
to the Hudson Valley like we will
turn to each other in the careful
sun as the train screams by.
I trust this moment,
picking burrs off my wool,
the quiet acquiescence of your
back to the brick, a red birth
relenting to the strict stream
of silence
*
Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in The Shore, Red Weather, and The Basilisk Tree. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.
