Dogwood Blood in My Mother’s Palm

My mother loved the dogwood blooms –
each spring a fresh crucifixion.
And when it flushed wild in the clearing
where our new house stood,
on a stripped skull, quick to erode,
my mother rushed to the dogwood,
cupped each stained white blossom
in her hand and whispered, “forgive, forgive.”

She never went to church anymore,
never again touched her cold dead Mary,
never again begged favor or grace,
not after that first spring
bloomed dogwood,
not after the twisted
cursed and giving lumbers
first sprung upon her eyes –
a crucifixion, multiplied,
a hundred times, a hundred Aprils,
on the limbs of a retribution.

Image: Aaron Burden on Unsplash

5 Thoughts

  1. To me this is so American Devon. There is that sense of fervency and reliance running wild. I love it. You epitomize an element of the unseen but strongly felt.

  2. Devon, you have a natural propensity for the written poetic word. Not only in depth, but a pouring out of feeling and well-defined emotion- as if the pen is an extension of your soul. Brilliant!!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.