Devon Poniatowski


My father bought a lake in memoriam of a glacier:

the tapioca simmer of his dead mother’s hum

as she sieved honey into tea.

I read her kinked hair as a bird’s nest.

If I pawed it, I’d trigger abandon.

She whistled often, the sound of roots inking silt.

My mother would have loved you.

The words that rock me to sleep.

Her moon visage follows me in cycles,

parses slats of light across my pillow.

I dream her underwater: mermaid-finned,

turnkey eyed, liquid. Salt dissolving skin.

She survives: a porcelain bird figurine

lolled on mantle. My father cried

twice: when ceramic met concrete & when

twine & glue couldn’t cradle splinters. Now

it’s him & the lake. In May he rows,

spooning the moon from the water

into a bale jar. The mountains erode to

the rhythm of his metallic clanks while I write

of her hands gardening empty rooms.

Devon Poniatowski is an English (literature) major at SUNY Geneseo. She believes in the power of art, and the importance of observing beauty. If she could befriend a fictional character, it would be Puck (Robin) from A Midsummer Night’s Dream for his spritely and mischievous whimsy.

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