Zealful by Michael Moreth
part/pile
Under the pink waterfall,
but resting, too, on top
of the lower scarf river,
sleeps a black lump of fur.
No longer a little loaf, full peasant
Moonshadow curls into the back
of our old studio chair, piles
her paws out in front her face.
Tail, too, she tucks into a mess
of pad and claw. See not the dust
of white on chest, nor snowy
underbelly, though, each
a reminder: not wholly black.
Often, we break our bodies
into parts, but today a little
black lump confirms each body
remains one pile of flesh, rising
and falling, a breath,
a breath.
I see each hair on the horizon
of her back as they rise
to heaven, no—pulled
by static electricity
toward the window sill,
her favorite perch, where
she stares us off on errands
and admits us home.
query/stasis
to embed vanilla in the field
means how
this the eve of our tenth
wedding anniversary
no call yet
from paternal grandmothers
one buried
at the appropriate depth
for Minnesota winters
another sits
with some ease
in her lawn chair
in the breezeway chatting
with uncle so and so about
that field they owned
rental property
together
we await a ring
our own chat
a love called
no-news-here
that we can share
before settling in
for another evening
with vanilla
absent of cool
dry air
and as always
the sun
perhaps now I will see why
poetry like marriage
a practice is
a path through the world
daily
each no static thing
About the author:
J. Thomas Burke earned his MFA in poetry from the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans. His work appears in Mojave River Review, Helen, Panoply, SPANK the CARP, Gloom Cupboard and elsewhere. In 2018, he won the Vassar Miller Poetry Award judged by Ava Leavell Haymon. He teaches poetry, writing, and literature in New Orleans.
In the artist’s words:
Michael Moreth is a recovering Chicagoan living in the rural, micropolitan City of Sterling, the Paris of Northwest Illinois.