The 2River View  

Amy PenceListen

Above the Baby’s Grave

Were you arboreal In memory
before you landed Mildred Phillips, born
or just caught in 1910: died
in the net of 1912: darling we miss thee
I think of you often Moss in the folds
in the trees winged angel—her parents dead but
still a baby, still two decades later—
with the full ruddy crown of the head
limbs of Michelangelo's polished smooth
Christ: for aren't you like her birth
above me now this opening
crossing into arching above
a mimosa as here the trees, runged around that
I weep by your  
grave—aren't you lost
every absence in me infant
made flesh— core

Demeter Rising From the Couch

The way I heard it She rises
a field, brown-eyed and goes to
susans: a child the mirror—
in the field, and then hollow-eyed, waiting for
the rape, the taking down sounds:
to that place: The way the door,
I feared it was the fall parting car,
of the spirit shoes off—
the browning of the eye, all arrangements
the girl's entrapment of modern-day
in the underworld custody
Too old to identify She rises
with Persephone, to see how
I understand her daughter will weather
Demeter's wintering— the visit:
split from her child almost curling tight
half of the time a little shell
powerless in that hollow- hiding or the nameless
eyed stare anger flaming
back up in her