Zoë Ryder White

In Which the Golem Sucks Eggs Dry Each April

Winds, roads; nothing stays the same.
Ribs of ruminants upturn in the worked soil.
The mud body, waking, wants a name.

We name what grows in spite of us: forest-flame,
adder’s tongue, bird foot, fiddler’s coil.
Winds, roads; nothing stays the same.

Speechless, sorrowing, ripe with shame,
we slide shem into your forehead, folded in foil.
The mud body, waking, wants a name.

I’m curious about your circuitry, your lame
left heel, your taking leave, the vigor of your boil.
Winds, roads; nothing stays the same.

You eat everything, even me, and who could blame
you: a husk wants fattening; a soul wants toil.
The mud body, waking, wants a name.

We parent each other, we collide, we reframe
the visual field, the literal, heart’s vague turmoil.
Winds, roads; nothing stays the same.
The mud body, waking, wants a name.


Zoë Ryder White’s poems have appeared in Thrush, Hobart, Sixth Finch, Threepenny Review, Crab Creek Review, and Subtropics, among others. She co-authored a chapbook, A Study in Spring, with Nicole Callihan. Their second collaboration, Elsewhere, won the Sixth Finch chapbook contest and is now available. A former public elementary school teacher, she edits books for educators about the craft of teaching.

 

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A Poetry Journal

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