By Colleen McClintock
is a place with strings.
Not the deadweight strings of the puppeteer,
not the lifeline tied around the waist.
They are living strings, wet with intent,
granted purpose on a Sunday evening
when a mother’s hands take time to bind them
in meticulous intervals around a tender pot roast.
Thyme and rosemary, memory and time:
a little white rope coiled around the mind
to squeeze out (with tenderness!) the sickly sweet juices
that give shape to my flesh and bone
gave shape to your eyes, lips, and nose
when the world pissed you off,
or better yet, elated you.
The Poet may claim that he cannot know
but I know the meaning of stones
the meaning of earth
in France, Italy, Scotland
when the good darkness settles around me
on a Sunday evening, when I am alone
and I suddenly taste rosemary and thyme
on the tip of my tongue.