Back to Issue Fifty

Repair

BY KATE DELAY

I hear my calf braying into the indigo under
half-faced moons, a slurry of sight & sound. On these nights,
the calf & I stand shoulder to shoulder at the fence
of the world, our sorrow weeding
the pasture behind us, that soybean-sucked soil, leeched & lingering.

 

& the barbed wire hums into the grasses: & the blue light bends
around our bodies: & our fingernails are caked with fight.
The world calls out to us, wet & wanting.
O field, I tried to leave you
& never be left. I longed to lift the electric
fence & free my calf from the field, our leaving
a plucked string for the night choir.

 

But for the fight of that field, I met the calf.
& when I share her eyes, she sees stars. I carry her
earth in my earth, find a field in every fold. My shadow bends
around me like four new legs, stitched from a
womb of nightshade & dew.

 

& I made a home in the world. & everywhere, the world loves itself
in me. When I remember that field, I listen
softly. When I love that field, I sing.

 

The Cardinal

BY KATE DELAY

She flies into the porch door
& snaps her neck. That’s how
I found her: absolutely alive-
looking: an eye that could never shut. There’s no end like
home. Click those ruby heels & fuck
a tornado, right out of Kansas. I’ve seen twisters run
ruts in the same route: ruin
the same house. So dig in, sister. I’ve lived
against the glass
many times before: watched
my red breast swell into view: prayed
to remake myself from decisive
unwavering shapes. Fear was my proof of
a soul: angry as red
feathers: as tornado: as God. A righteous
destruction, if I do say so myself.
Still, I wept. Jesus:
I’d have to drink
blood to get me right inside.
Tennessee weighs a hell
of a lot once she’s spoken into the air: flies
like an angel delivering
bad news: I’ll never bring my love
home. Where
your heart is. My heart is
a holy fool: hoping against
history over &
over. Before flying
became an occasion, superstition was a first-
light, a mourning
wish: cardinals carry
the souls of those we’ve lost, or die
trying. I carried my dead.
Of course I did.
Silence allowed me to believe
the best of you.

Kate DeLay is a poet from Tennessee. Her work can be found or forthcoming in The Iowa Review, Pleiades, swamp pink, The Ekphrastic Review, Quarterly West, and elsewhere. She is the winner of the 2023 William Matthews Poetry Prize at Asheville Poetry Review, selected by Diane Seuss. A former Editor of Black Warrior Review, Kate is currently attending the University of Alabama’s MFA Creative Writing program.

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