Gleanings

by laurie koensgen

My skin was one

with summer then, siennaed

by the sun

and grass-green at the knees

and it was never enough

to steep in mud,

slip fingers in anthills, hang

bark-scuffed from trees:

my body wanted totems.

I chose purple weeds

and maple keys.

I’d weave them in my hair,

fasten them with feathers

of crows and geese.

Songbirds’ plumes

eluded me.

I’ve grown tame with time,

lost the lust to prove

each taking-flight,

each breaking root.

I take hold of my combs,

gently card

the grey-gold curls,

the yield in my palms

a soft cocoon, a glossed

half moon.

I’ve learned that human hairs

can be a risk: too fine.

I braid them into wisps

of twine, release

each slender breadth

into the updraft, onto the hedge

where a brace of sparrows

is layering its nest.