Northwest of the Breast of Longing
“Scared animals always return to the familiar” – A League of Their Own
Where the body builds what it cannot keep,
there is a cottage swaying ever closer
to the sea. I made my way there
like a mutt pointed to the scent
of old wounds—back a taut line
shuffling close to the earth. On the air:
salt & smoke. With each breath,
the door sweeps open at its seam
& catches the neat brass bell that calls
home guillemot & crouching child
of memory. I can cleave to any
wild in my own chest; always
I am combing soft fingers through the grass
to temper my hide. I tried to build it slowly,
the refuge through the fog—every leg
nailed to the floor, every shirt pinned
as if anticipating dissection with their soft
bellies to the sky. Between the ribbed
floorboards, want rises like steam.
In the mornings, my lungs are two pigeons
released with no compass. Here, they are seabirds
called back to the cupped hand of a cliff.
By sundown, curled beside the open
window, I see them return,
as all creatures do: black wings steady against
the punctured heat, roosting in a familiar hollow.
The walls & their sharp bones.
Where the body builds what it cannot keep,
there is a cottage swaying ever closer
to the sea. I made my way there
like a mutt pointed to the scent
of old wounds—back a taut line
shuffling close to the earth. On the air:
salt & smoke. With each breath,
the door sweeps open at its seam
& catches the neat brass bell that calls
home guillemot & crouching child
of memory. I can cleave to any
wild in my own chest; always
I am combing soft fingers through the grass
to temper my hide. I tried to build it slowly,
the refuge through the fog—every leg
nailed to the floor, every shirt pinned
as if anticipating dissection with their soft
bellies to the sky. Between the ribbed
floorboards, want rises like steam.
In the mornings, my lungs are two pigeons
released with no compass. Here, they are seabirds
called back to the cupped hand of a cliff.
By sundown, curled beside the open
window, I see them return,
as all creatures do: black wings steady against
the punctured heat, roosting in a familiar hollow.
The walls & their sharp bones.
Mary as Image
In a shopping center,
I am handed a picture of you--
arms open towards an absent
child, face pleasant but vacant
the way a spoon begins, pass
after pass, to rend flesh from fruit.
When believers came to you looking
for cure, they bathed their arms
in well water. I too have reached
for a woman’s touch to confirm
my faith in prayer—upturned
face cradled in a palmistry
of future misgivings. In the hospital,
the doctor asks again if I could
be pregnant, & I think of you--
was it miracle or violation
to find your body unknown
to your own histories? The line
from pleasure to desire has a median:
the flightless bird in my throat.
I want to break open at the abdomen--
not birth, but excavation. How have you
made this lineage that flowers alone?
The one bright blossom of its own favor.
I am handed a picture of you--
arms open towards an absent
child, face pleasant but vacant
the way a spoon begins, pass
after pass, to rend flesh from fruit.
When believers came to you looking
for cure, they bathed their arms
in well water. I too have reached
for a woman’s touch to confirm
my faith in prayer—upturned
face cradled in a palmistry
of future misgivings. In the hospital,
the doctor asks again if I could
be pregnant, & I think of you--
was it miracle or violation
to find your body unknown
to your own histories? The line
from pleasure to desire has a median:
the flightless bird in my throat.
I want to break open at the abdomen--
not birth, but excavation. How have you
made this lineage that flowers alone?
The one bright blossom of its own favor.
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Jo Bear is a poet, scholar, and educator currently pursuing their MFA in poetry at North Carolina State University. They have an MA in Drama & Performance Studies from University College Dublin and are a 2023 Zoeglossia Fellow. Their poetry appears or is forthcoming in The Offing, Shō Poetry Journal, Channel, West Branch, The South Carolina Review, Blue Earth Review, Poetry Ireland Review, ROPES Literary Journal, and elsewhere.
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