Resurrecting // Kelly Andrews

Call it anticipation.

           A phantom picks up the line

                                 love      is      is      is
how to learn to leave

                                 like limbs falling

                                                        from a tulip tree.

Call it memory.

           A faded rift in time

                                  that unspools until

it’s the faintest

                               bleeding below

                                                        the surface.

Call it morning

           when migrating birds

                               circle endlessly,

appear as worried apparitions,

                               blue-winged wallowers

                                                        never finding a home.

Call it swallowed tongue.

           Listening to his recorded

                               voice on repeat, saying my name,

the time. It’s dark again.

                               I can hear the distance

                                                        over a metallic cough.

Call it sacrament

           to form clumps of earth

                                 into a dampened body,

lie on top until

                       it becomes a disappearance

                                                          of self.

Call it shame.

           I give birth ex nihilo,

                      bathe in a warm potion

of oil & thyme, emerge

                                  unholy and shaken,

                                                         an abomination.

Kelly Andrews' poems have appeared or are forthcoming in PANK, Apeiron Review, Weave Magazine, Pear Noir, and elsewhere. Her chapbook "Mule Skinner" is available from Dancing Girl Press (2014). She coedits the online journal Pretty Owl Poetry and has a hand in creating B.E. Quarterly, a sometimes-quarterly zine. Like most people she knows, she has an affinity for cats.