by Liane St. Laurent
I calibrate the ticking of my pulse to the chime of the earth ringing
like a bell on winter nights. you believe in holy but I believe in haloed
moons that foretell a glaze of new snow. O, the unbearable beauty
of it all. the surprise of a hexagon is enough to bring me to my knees.
my own mother ebbs, confides that when she goes to sleep she wonders
if she will wake in the morning. I know I can’t keep her pressed between
the pages of a book like one of spring’s first violets. and I, now too an eggless
woman, consider each sequential folding and unfolding of that moon,
set my breath to its sensible division of time and pray: ichi-go, ichi-e.
Liane St. Laurent is an old dog learning new tricks. She has washed dishes, driven horse-drawn carriages, picked apples, taught English and most recently, is an IT professional. Her work appears in The Penmen Review, The Banyan Review, and Sidereal Magazine. Liane lives in New Hampshire with her husband, André, and their two dogs, Jolene and Katia.