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YOUR CART

mary fitzpatrick

Wren

All the leaves have left the trees and lie
            wet and every shade of brown and gray
                        on the road   I walk
            no canopy to give me shade but clouds
it is November and right near by
            a wren the color of the ground
                        hops beside   dips and darts
            into bush thickets along the way and then
returns   she is my tiny daughter   we
            chatter together she
                        is my song   at times she disappears   I have
            no fear only joy until I see
a fox crossing the road ahead and bold
            raccoon hugging a mailbox post behind
                        I want to call out   warn her   but do not know
            how to say beware   she is everywhere   I cannot
find her   why now
            must the ancient station wagon stop
                        to ask my help   in digging out his other car
            from mud and atrophy   the ancient driver’s
blue-rimmed eyes   his milk transparent
            face forlorn   he’s never asked for help before he’s always
                        made each thing with hands   his strength
            is gone even his voice
trembles   Wait I wish to say   She’s gone! Let me
            just find her then                
I’ll help you   I will help because
            I’m strong   but what
is that if I can’t find my song
          Do you know the words I ask
                      to entreat a wren the color of smoke to make
         the ember housed in rain rise up
to light her saucy face?
            he kills the engine of the car   his ancient wife
                        curls and makes her mouth a hollow
            a tender whistle she makes
wild sounds    I look around    the land
            lies still    unmoving     sun blinks in the trees
                        the fox is gone   raccoon’s
            not there   when I turn back
to the couple and their wagon
            on the wet November road I find
                        I am alone
            in the shape
of quiet singing.

November / December, 2022

Barbara Daniels
Mary Fitzpatrick's poems have been finalists for the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and the Slapering Hol Chapbook Award; short-listed for the Fish Publishing Prize; featured in Mississippi Review, Atlanta Review and North American Review as contest finalists; and published in such journals as Agenda (UK), Briar Cliff Review, Hunger Mountain, International Literary Quarterly (InterLitQ), Miramar, The Paterson Review, Pratik, Terrain.org, plus ten anthologies. A graduate of UC Santa Cruz with an MFA from UMass Amherst, she is a fourth-generation Angeleno who feels at home in Ireland.
Art:  Skye. Oil on canvas. T. Aguilera.
  
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