Wren Tuatha

Wicker Me

Wicker me.
Bend me.
Weave me into a rocker and I’ll
wait on your porch with your
faithful dog Bart.

Some August night is our blanket.
Park your clogs
and I’ll rock you,
creak next to your skin,
cushion you into your ease.

Wavy pool of cricket songs
and horns out on the interstate.
Wicker me into a painting of this.

The Memory of Snow

The souls of women float just above the ground
as if walking on the memory of snow.
Ready to be air if struck, water if kicked,
stone if belittled, fire if ignored.

The souls of women laugh lightly in most moments,
beaming pinpoints through the skin. It makes you
want to touch. Priestesses and party dresses.

And so you touch. Shocked to find flesh, you
notice a bad memory. Soon each woman is the
same woman and her soul is bitter lamplight,
bitter, insatiable lamplight.

The souls of women reel and swoon with
art and moon and business meetings. They
encircle bitter sisters and float just above the ground
as if walking on the memory of snow.

Wren Tuatha’s poetry is designed to fit the small corners of the bulletin board in Heathcote Community's mill kitchen. It has also appeared or is upcoming in The Cafe Review, Canary, Coachella Review, Baltimore Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Loch Raven Review, Clover, Driftwood Press, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Bangalore Review, Burningword, and the anthology Grease and Tears. Wren is followed by skeptical goats on a mountain in California.