Jeff Burt
Linnaea
Twinflower, a fragile
pink bloom in Nordic forests of fir,
you came slipping, nipples and navel
tender from turmoil, propelled
in your mother’s breathy burst of triumph,
rippled scalp and cheeks near pink,
umbilical cord your tendril
stretching from dawn to dark.
Having run love's gauntlet
into light you were
wheeled and poked,
scored and scoured,
needled, weighed,
needled, poked,
measured, scored,
gooed, cooed,
printed, splinted,
tapped and wrapped.
Then, true to your name,
belying the ten hours
of torture you had endured,
you lay pink and peaceful
on my chest, your cotton-capped
head against my beard,
and as the petals of a flower
fold slowly upon the heart of the blossom
as the light leaves the air
so your eyelids closed.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife and a July abundance of plums. He works in mental health. He has work in The Monarch Review, LitBreak, Spry, Rabid Oak, NatureWriting, and won the 2017 Cold Mountain Review Poetry Prize.
Linnaea
Twinflower, a fragile
pink bloom in Nordic forests of fir,
you came slipping, nipples and navel
tender from turmoil, propelled
in your mother’s breathy burst of triumph,
rippled scalp and cheeks near pink,
umbilical cord your tendril
stretching from dawn to dark.
Having run love's gauntlet
into light you were
wheeled and poked,
scored and scoured,
needled, weighed,
needled, poked,
measured, scored,
gooed, cooed,
printed, splinted,
tapped and wrapped.
Then, true to your name,
belying the ten hours
of torture you had endured,
you lay pink and peaceful
on my chest, your cotton-capped
head against my beard,
and as the petals of a flower
fold slowly upon the heart of the blossom
as the light leaves the air
so your eyelids closed.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife and a July abundance of plums. He works in mental health. He has work in The Monarch Review, LitBreak, Spry, Rabid Oak, NatureWriting, and won the 2017 Cold Mountain Review Poetry Prize.