Poetry

by Rose Postma In the seven days it took Utnapishtim's hired craftsmen to build his reed-stitched boat, Noah must have wandered over late at night to check his competition out: examining mortise and tenon, measuring the span of the joists, wishing he had more help than three elderly sons. Did sweat salt Utnapishtim's eyes as he helped his men ache the craft over a road of poles, down to the still-smooth Euphrates, or was it just the first drops of…

JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2014: POETRY by Rose Postma The leaves, which are not leaves, are silverfish, which are not fish at all but wingless insects: translucent as uterine vellum, antennae always craving flight, exodus. Some sloughed by wind as finger nail clippings or dried skin cells to the floor, destined for the garbage can. The remnant is clinging to the gray-bark trunk, to the branches and the peach tree suckers growing below the grafting line, not clinging, grasping. Held, bound, always feeling…