Oh, to be gently
cursed,
to stumble from sleep
find all the day shifting
just to the left, tilted sky,
lavender clouds.
Some
unseen witch presses
a finger to my brow
turns my attention closer,
away from pocked gray
moon & stars, nearer now
to earth & dirt.
Maybe
I’ll make friends with worms
before they grow closer
acquainted with my remains,
learn the tune
of birds who will sing my last
fraught lullaby.
Even then, I think,
I’ll still be humming hymns,
lyrics divorced from meaning,
thou fount of every blessing
just the way the world looks
from a certain angle, worship
of rock & twig.
—
Savannah Cooper (she/her) is a Pushcart Prize nominated poet. Her work has been previously published more than 30 journals, including Parentheses Journal, Midwestern Gothic, and Mud Season Review.