On the White Hill
On the white hill—moonlight
bright on the hemlocks
drooping with snow, bright
on the hill where deer tracks go.
The trees toss their snow
in the wind on the hill,
and the prints vanish now—
one by one, they go.
*
Sally Nacker lives in a small house in the woods of Redding, CT with her husband and two cats. Wild birds are her joy. Recent publishing credits include Canary, ONE ART, Third Wednesday, and The Sunlight Press. Kindness in Winter is her newest collection.
MERCILESS SEASON
Even a mild winter is a violent time.
I can’t undo its damage, my darkness.
Sunrise, early spring. The lake silvers
the horizon, leaving me to calculate my crimes.
My voice is a rasp, cold in its husk.
Don’t ask it questions, it won’t answer.
Darling, I deserted you in a merciless season,
I abandoned you like a stray dog
chained to a stump in the snow.
The sky in its spreading reds and golds
will return my kindness to me,
but too late to save you, it seems.
I only know I am wildly ready
to be good and sweet again,
ready to take all the sun’s medicines now.
*
SOLITUDE
The sun sets fire to the mountains at dusk.
A pickup shudders past on the highway,
the driver alone in the cab. My house is silent,
utterly still, and I wonder about the driver,
if he’s heading home to someone, or
if he luxuriates in living by himself.
My love is coming back, this much I know.
We won’t list the dark days. We won’t
argue about the arguments. He’ll return,
hungry for me again. It always goes this way.
It will go this way until it doesn’t, and then I
will weigh my solitude, maybe refashion myself,
no longer the one detained but the one who
stops counting the hours like fathomless stars.
*
TRUE
When the storm was over,
I felt an unutterable stillness.
I survived, having
come close to death. I waited for a
moment, took stock. Yes, I was unscathed.
Then I saw a window
and climbed through it for light, for life,
for the good of my restive aging spirit.
The sky gilded me, the water blued my horizon,
the wet dirt waited for my bare feet.
Maple leaves drifted to me as if
the path at my feet was their correct address.
All of my years gathered like a shield,
defending me from errors.
Nothing followed me. I was
delivered from the shadows of old wars.
I ran, every heartbeat shivering my skin,
my destination gauzy in the distance.
I am still running, but not away.
I am aiming true. I know this voiceless road.
*
Marcia Trahan is the author of Mercy: A Memoir of Medical Trauma and True Crime Obsession (Barrelhouse Books). Her poetry has appeared in such publications as Cathexis Northwest Press, Two Hawks Quarterly, The Write Launch, Wild Roof Journal, Every Day Poems, Cloudbank, Clare, Anderbo, and Kansas City Voices. Her essays have been published in HuffPost, The Rumpus, Catapult, the Brevity Blog, Fourth Genre, and other publications. Marcia works as a freelance book editor and holds an MFA from Bennington College. To learn more, visit https://marciatrahan.com/
