Two
poems from Kimberly Burwick's The Norway Tree
followed
by a note on the author
My
Arrows Are Not Sharp
The
real sunlight,
brighter than winter's green,
is the small Bethlehem
we
cannot see.
The purblind
and colorblind
are not sainted
but horsewhipped
by
wind.
You were hard
to believe there are bits
of us everywhere,
in
the platinum deadwood
like widowhood's
tarnished harvest home
and the
unwived's
moonlit cabin.
But this here
is abbey land
and no craven
thing
will do.
The
Norway Tree
This
is arcadia
just as this
is a hailstone sun.
I can stand in the gold
jasper
volcanic and learn the last words
of wool blowing, I say, in wilderness.
As
ribs are the ridges
between furrow, you
are the loud-lunged silencer
unsure
if I am worth the trouble.
Plant me in the mountain
of the heart's mutilation,
spinster
me, my maple.
I can wait hours for you
to charge one leaf.
©
Kimberly
Burwick obtained her B.A in literature from the University of Wisconsin –
Madison, and her M.F.A. in poetry from Antioch University - Los Angeles. Burwick’s
first book of poems, Has No Kinsmen, was published by Red Hen Press in
2006. She currently teaches at Washington State University, and for UCLA’s
online extension program.
