Alison Stone
Easter Pantoum
I wish I could believe
the dead return like birds
singing of resurrection
in sun-drenched yards.
The dead return like birds,
some preachers say.
In sun-drenched yards,
daffodils lift their gold throats.
Some preachers say
killing for God is holy.
Daffodils lift their gold throats.
Children hunt for plastic eggs.
Killing for God is holy.
There’s a prayer for every desire.
Children hunt for plastic eggs,
well-hidden or peeking out, obvious.
There’s a prayer for every desire.
We wear our hungers like relics.
Well-hidden or peeking out, obvious,
cats wait near birdfeeders.
We wear our hungers like relics
I wish I could believe in.
Cats wait near feeders
where birds sing of resurrection.
the dead return like birds
singing of resurrection
in sun-drenched yards.
The dead return like birds,
some preachers say.
In sun-drenched yards,
daffodils lift their gold throats.
Some preachers say
killing for God is holy.
Daffodils lift their gold throats.
Children hunt for plastic eggs.
Killing for God is holy.
There’s a prayer for every desire.
Children hunt for plastic eggs,
well-hidden or peeking out, obvious.
There’s a prayer for every desire.
We wear our hungers like relics.
Well-hidden or peeking out, obvious,
cats wait near birdfeeders.
We wear our hungers like relics
I wish I could believe in.
Cats wait near feeders
where birds sing of resurrection.
Mother/Son Cento
(with lines from the anthology First Light, edited by Jason Shinder. Punctuation has been changed)
Listen, children:
For your own mother you remain Baby,
all the rabbits saying Yes, all the frogs saying Yes.
She is the day, the walk of the moon
I look up at.
I wanted that face to die --
In its forms, the beasts originate.
The bad mother left her children behind
howling in stone cities
where the burning cold illuminated
this neat suburban avenue full of maples.
Well, it is over now, it is over.
Life must go on.
It will be a heaven of blackred roses.
Listen, children:
For your own mother you remain Baby,
all the rabbits saying Yes, all the frogs saying Yes.
She is the day, the walk of the moon
I look up at.
I wanted that face to die --
In its forms, the beasts originate.
The bad mother left her children behind
howling in stone cities
where the burning cold illuminated
this neat suburban avenue full of maples.
Well, it is over now, it is over.
Life must go on.
It will be a heaven of blackred roses.
--
Alison Stone has published nine full-length collections. Her poems have appeared in journals including The Paris Review, Poetry, Ploughshares, Poetry International, Barrow Street, Poet Lore, Michigan Quarterly Review, and Rattle. She has been awarded Poetry’s Frederick Bock Prize, New York Quarterly’s Madeline Sadin Award, and The Lyric’s Lyric Poetry Prize.
Alison Stone has published nine full-length collections. Her poems have appeared in journals including The Paris Review, Poetry, Ploughshares, Poetry International, Barrow Street, Poet Lore, Michigan Quarterly Review, and Rattle. She has been awarded Poetry’s Frederick Bock Prize, New York Quarterly’s Madeline Sadin Award, and The Lyric’s Lyric Poetry Prize.