With My Bathrobe and Bottlebrush
I’ve ordered a bathrobe of golden-
crowned sparrow feathers, the soft
down from the belly. Back ordered,
the claws that catch.
I plan to scale the trunk
of the bottlebrush shrub in the yard
and shelter memories
of our marriage there.
First, I want to fly, drift
through that cumulus
fluffing itself in the blue.
Bend and flash my teeth
against the white curlicues,
dive through those clouds
with the silver-plated linings
everybody talks about,
and land on my feet
back on dirt where I’ll see the veins
of my hand in the veins of leaves.
I’ll stuff the pockets of my robe
with those leaves, bring them to the library
and press them in the encyclopedia of the world
with its foxed, mildewed answers.
The damp catching in my throat,
I’ll cough up mulch to rake around
the bottlebrush to save it from winter’s freeze.
When my sparrow crampons arrive I’ll be ready
to climb into the bower of branches,
red stamens awakening in me
washing and washing those baby bottles
that held my breast milk while I went to work.
I’ve ordered a bathrobe of golden-
crowned sparrow feathers, the soft
down from the belly. Back ordered,
the claws that catch.
I plan to scale the trunk
of the bottlebrush shrub in the yard
and shelter memories
of our marriage there.
First, I want to fly, drift
through that cumulus
fluffing itself in the blue.
Bend and flash my teeth
against the white curlicues,
dive through those clouds
with the silver-plated linings
everybody talks about,
and land on my feet
back on dirt where I’ll see the veins
of my hand in the veins of leaves.
I’ll stuff the pockets of my robe
with those leaves, bring them to the library
and press them in the encyclopedia of the world
with its foxed, mildewed answers.
The damp catching in my throat,
I’ll cough up mulch to rake around
the bottlebrush to save it from winter’s freeze.
When my sparrow crampons arrive I’ll be ready
to climb into the bower of branches,
red stamens awakening in me
washing and washing those baby bottles
that held my breast milk while I went to work.
Cathryn Shea is a fourth-generation Californian, having grown up and lived in northern California most of her life. While poetry is her main interest, Cathryn had a day job many years in the computer industry in the Bay Area and Silicon Valley. She also served as editor for Marin Poetry Center Anthology. Cathryn’s chapbook, Snap Bean, was released in 2014 by CC.Marimbo of Berkeley. Her poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in After the Pause, Gargoyle, Gravel, Main Street Rag, Permafrost, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. Cathryn lives in Fairfax, CA, and spends part of each day watching over a covey of California quail. See www.cathrynshea.com and @cathy_shea.