Amy Jo Trier-Walker

Just machete the woods

Just machete the woods
the path filled with burs
up through even my hair
I macheted just the path
I can’t machete my grief
You’re such a beautiful lady
to be nightshade in the brambles

There will be enough pain to harvest
I can’t save it all and walk through
this night, calling, swing low, sweet chariot
coming for to carry me home
swing low, sweet
night I cannot
not drink through
The elderberry wine you found for me
as if you remembered
Yet you couldn’t remember me
You couldn’t meet me
that Monday I had a fire right here
waiting for you
All night I still take you with me
since I can’t take a blade to it all
I can’t stop seeing you
right herein the ash
and the coals

Give me your spring hands

Give me your spring hands,
your single perfect roof,
and my first tree will read you all of Calumet,
all the daisies that have ever been mowed around,
and the exact kneeling of dogs to a sunset.
You will be my rain down
a swooping barn under the covers.
I will be your bonfire afield,
your melody of five clocks mortared
into the cord wood of your chest.
Give me your harvested corn hands,
and I will give you my pines
along with their shadows.