Five Poems by Mary Katherine Creel

After the Thunderstorm

There’s a stillbirth in the attic
at the end
of a late-spring storm.

From a little brown bat
still clinging—

a thin cord, anchored
by a pulpy mass,

black fur & fused wings
wet with placenta.

The mother
is unable to leave.

I lie awake
in the bed below,

moonlight burns
my eyes wide open.

We grieve.

*

Because Every Cell is Listening

The doctor describes my condition
as a keyhole.

She has no idea
what I’ve kept locked in.

Because every cell in the body
is listening, skin makes itself

milk glass, mimics oak bark
to heal over old wounds.

Except, this is not a place
for the body to be scarred,

safe yet ever-guarding
from a wolf at the door.

Because every cell in the body
is fighting, I imagine

lavender light at the suggestion
of my therapist, whisper

healing mantras, lie down with
honey bees and clover,

sew myself into the earth.

*

Fortune Teller

Is it selfish to want more
moments like this—

more peach & lavender clouds
lined with rose gold,

the screech of a hawk
nesting in the neighbor’s oak,

honey bees swarming
the false holly?

This time tomorrow,
the cells collected from

my uterus will be packed
with other specimens

en route to a lab.
A stranger will read

stained membranes & mucosa
like tea leaves,

foretell a future with
or without me,

while I try to predict
when the milkweed will bloom.

*

If I Donate My Body to Science

Will the anatomy students find
the paper wasp nest

hung in my throat, snip away
bloodroot fused with foot bones?

Will they wake the black dog
curled inside my rib cage,

marvel at stardust clogging
every vein? Will my shadow

spill, dull flecks of fool’s gold
sifted from the Flint River?

Will they want to study catbrier
wrapping fallopian tubes,

berry-sized cysts, the reverse
scar behind my navel

grown over like bark to heal
a severed first connection?

*

The Day Before Surgery

When I say, I’m going outside
to feed the dark-eyed

juncos, what I really mean is
I need to find a place

where my shadow is one
with the red oak,

and this fear—weighing
like last night’s snow

on rhododendron buds,
turns to slush.

What I need is to follow
forked prints left by crows,

the zig-zag tail drag
of a hungry opossum

and blood-red berries
dropped by the mockingbird

rattling around
in the sleet-frozen holly.

I need to know, this is not
the last time I will hear

snow-crunch underfoot,
Carolina wrens fussing

at cats stalking the brush pile,
feel winter’s wind-sting,

the cold dagger of an icicle
in a wool mitten.

*

Mary Katherine Creel lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where she has worked as a journalist and counselor to children and families. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of two poetry collections, including her most recent book, Every Note, a Lantern. She also writes the Substack publication, a small spectacle, featuring nature-inspired poems and short essays about finding gratitude, healing, and connection.