Maggie Childers 

 

~

 

Fruit Gallery

 

In my experience 

all paintings are of houses 

even when they don’t mean to be 

even if the window’s 

oiled over 

or the broad strokes 

look more like fruit 

 

In the lines of the basket 

I see Mary upstairs 

pressing her cheek to her son 

two oranges in a bag, soft against each other 

and the bird circling the bushes 

rams into the window – 

 

in a more gentle instance 

the window opens, so I reach out 

press my cheek to my son 

let him forgive me again and again 

 

I have always been a mother: 

long before this moment, 

before the cancer, before I dreamt a thing 

 

Mary leans her body into paint 

and is blessed 

I lean my body into paint and 

kill my baby. 

He turns back into fruit – 

 

 

They Say I Was Born in Slow Motion

 

the womb opened at the stitches and I walked out 

four pounds and confused 

with my twin’s skin in a closed fist 

death sentences like you and me have a way 

of turning rain into pure salt 

where evening hums like a cigarette 

burning the cows on the hill 

look outside 

the moon swallows people and runs 

on four legs one for each time I said 

I loved you 

and the day is no better 

a sun with five hands 

all for touching 

it is the apocalypse of everything 

language first and then bodies 

yours too much for me to bear 

I am afraid I will eat you wholly and keep the skin 

like I’ve been known to do 

or womb or unwomb you or let you take me 

I am afraid it won’t be slow enough