The National Poetry Review

A.M. Brandt


After the lavender of day is done and I lie
awake in the tomb between your father and me,

I sound your name, one softening syllable,
a sterling resonance to what is left of you

inside of me. Daughter that feels the sacrament
of stones, you say you are sick of being a stone

that falls back, barely moves, tumbles but a little way.
Tonight, you’re doing it again, a vagary of wings

that cross over rivers, through groves of alders,
to that place of solace marked away.

You are learning the laws of forgetting
the dark moon that was ours alone.

One shoulder grows damp, the other is a wheat field
burnished for a hard red winter to come.

A.M. BRANDT received her MFA from the University of Minnesota and is a professor of writing at Savannah College of Art and Design. Her work has appeared in The Southern Review, The Louisiana Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Cimarron, The Nebraska Review, The Cortland Review, and Parhelion Literary Magazine, among others. She lives in Savannah, GA.

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