★ ★ ★ ★



Wet as you were after birth, before wildness went.
After eighteen hours of labor, you inched down
toward day. Me, a hinge of protest. No mind, but
expulsion. Contractions and caesuras until the bed
fell away. At once, your head parted my legs, burned
out of me. Before blood and womb juices wiped away.
Before naked frog limbs, skin creases, nail seeds,
coiled ears. Your lips curved pink, rooted for
satisfaction.  Your skin, too new, to dress.

Night Work

I hear you before you are awake. Settle your blanketed
weight across my lap. You mewl louder, root, twist.
Toes arch, grip with each suck, swallow. At 2 a.m.,
owl’s call joins yours, another hunger speaks.

Hour of mothers and children, one feeds the other. No–
both feed. As lips nuzzle nipple; nipple showers
sweet milk. No thought of more––
just pull and pulse.

More important than sleep, I make the past.
Made and unmade each minute. I listen through
cracks on night’s edge.

My Son as Acrobat

You chose not to speak. You kept secrets.
You balanced between worlds on a
rough board held up by urchins.

Lived on the heady perfume of linden
blossoms beloved by bees. Your motley
diamonds of blue and yellow.

I sewed without cease, unable to fix
tears. Your face, wide and open.
A soup spoon. I could sip from your eyes.

My little somersault, I did not know
darkness touched you, when
you rolled out of me, puckered.

Eve F.W. Linn received her B.A. cum laude from Smith College in Fine Art and her M.F.A. in Poetry from the Low Residency Program at Lesley University. She has attended the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, the Frost Place Conference on Poetry, and the Colrain Manuscript Conference. Her favorite color is blue. She collects antique baby shoes, vintage textiles, and art pottery. She lives west of Boston with her family and two resident cats.