From series “Transitory Space” Color field, Nova Scotia, Canada, 2015 by Leah Oates
As Wildflowers
I think I’ve found a cure for all the shame
we were taught to feel within our bodies:
instead of flesh and bone, imagine this—
a wildflower blooming on the prairie.
As a black-eyed susan, it makes sense
to wear a yellow sundress, gussy up,
and gaze into the mirror of the sky.
Being lovely isn’t frivolous:
it’s an ecosystem of survival.
No one dares to blame the spiderworts,
who fill the summer fields with indigo,
for seeking out the touch of honeybees,
for flirting with the monarchs flying by,
for relishing the kiss of August sun.
And who could blame the hoary vervain blooms,
who drip with dulcet nectar, for enjoying
a visit from a handsome hummingbird?
And if my body were a dandelion,
I wouldn’t have to hate it so for changing
as the seasons change—its golden petals
suddenly the hue of winter’s snow.
Mollie’s Canary, Spring
Nebraska, 1880
Your singing shatters the monotony
of wind. Your plumage brings a flash of gold
into this prairie winter’s monochrome.
Sometimes, you even let me touch the softness
of your down and feel your racing heart.
Canary in the coalmine of my psyche,
warbling relentlessly to fill
the darkest crevices of memory,
the silence that was once a child’s laughter,
you know that only I can hear your song.
No hen exists for miles and miles and miles.
But still you feel the need within the hollow
of your bones, your throat, your sunny plumage
to call out to the phantom of your mate.
Do you gaze between cage’s bars
and see infinity or simply snow
like me? As the canary-colored sun
comes up, perhaps awoken by your chipper
ditty, ditty, I can’t help but hum along
and feel a tug of spring within my chest.
Mollie’s Canary, Autumn
Nebraska, 1880
This morning, the canary wouldn’t sing.
The quarry of his heart filled up with poison
from the prairie wind and me. Last spring,
his singing harmonized with all the voices
of the thrushes and robins. Now
silence overcomes the house. Outside,
he sees warbler on a maple bough.
I watch him as he watches it, decide,
in a moment’s madness to unlatch
his cage’s door and let him fly away
into the bleeding morning. May he catch
joy before becoming winter’s prey.
Still, I love the way he chose to fly,
and for a season, got to taste the sky.
Mollie’s Pansies
Nebraska, 1880
This is how I mark the land as mine:
a tiny flowerbox, a bed of straw,
the mornings I spend kneeling at this shrine
to blossoming against the odds, the awe
within my chest when, finally, it blooms
thanks to my tenacity. This year
it’s scarlet like a blushing cheek, the plumes
of rufous hummingbirds who flutter here
for a moment’s dalliance of sweetness,
the bloodshot sunset. Meanwhile, on the plains,
wild violets flourish, fill the bleakness
lavishly with their amaranthine stains.
But I must have my flowers, don’t you see?
This pansy clinging on to life is me.
A Visit From Joy
He sojourns to my window dressed in emerald
plumage every year around this time.
A fleeting moment of elation hovers
at the glass, its long and narrow beak
ideal for sousing out a bit of sweetness.
Maybe this time he’ll stay awhile, I think.
How did he end up here—this concrete jungle
of my heart? This is no place for him—
winged joy in search of dulcet nourishment.
He’s miles away from where he ought to be—
the flyway, forest, prairie in full bloom
where nothing stops a smile from unfurling
at the sight of so much purple phlox.
But still, he perches on a branch and stares
through my window, at my eyes, expecting
me to offer him a reason he might linger.
A hanging pot of salvias, perhaps?
A plastic feeder filled with sugared water?
At least a little shade where he can rest?
This empty yard is not your breeding ground.
I am no paradise nor an oasis—
just a barren landscape to be crossed.
Joy understands. He needs a fertile heart
in which to build his nest. Mine isn’t right.
He buzzes off into the fragrant distance
and disappears into a world of blue.
About the author:
Katherine Hoerth is the author of five poetry collections, including Flare Stacks in Full Bloom (Texas Review Press, 2022), which won the 2023 Summerlee Book Prize from the Center for History and Culture of Southeast Texas. She is the recipient of the 2021 Poetry of the Plains Prize from North Dakota State University Press for Prairie Madness (North Dakota State University Press, 2021) and the 2015 Helen C. Smith Prize from the Texas Institute of Letters for the best book of poetry in Texas for Goddess Wears Cowboy Boots (Lamar University Literary Press, 2014). Her work has been published in numerous literary magazines including Literary Imagination (Oxford University Press), Valparaiso Review, and Abstract Magazine TV. She is an associate professor at Lamar University and director of Lamar University Literary Press.
In the artist’s words:
Leah Oates. This image is from my photographic series “Transitory Space.” The series was featured from 2016-2017 as part of the MTA Arts and Design Light Box Project at 42nd Street in New York City.
I recently had a solo and several group shows in Toronto 2019 at Black Cat Artspace and recently had additional group shows in Toronto at the Gladstone Hotel, John Aird Gallery, Connections Gallery, Propeller Gallery, Arta Gallery and at the Papermill Gallery. I had solo shows in Toronto in February 2020 at the
I’ve had solo shows at venues such as Susan Eley Fine Art, The Arsenal Gallery in Central Park, The Brooklyn Public Library, The Center for Book Arts, Tomasulo Gallery, Real Art Ways, Wychwood Barns Community Gallery, and at the Sol Mednick Gallery at the Philadelphia University of the Arts; as well as national and international solo shows at Anchor Graphics, Artemisia Gallery and Woman Made Gallery in Chicago, Illinois and at Galerie Joella in Turku, Finland.
My work has been in group shows in New York City and state at the Schweinfurth Art Center, Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, Nurture Art Gallery, Metaphor Contemporary Art, Denise Bibro Fine Art, Yale University, The Pen and Brush, and at The Center for Book Arts; as well as nationally at Bob Rauschenberg Gallery in Florida, Unsettled Gallery in New Mexico, The Southeast Center for Photography in South Carolina and at Nave Gallery in Massachusetts.