Janice Pockett

Her name like a warning at the edge of the woods
and also   green metallic bicycle   empty envelope
butterfly-under-rock.
Whoever made her disappear did it entirely.
Had the kennel released its hounds
the dogs would have found nothing
before the decades of nothing.
How far back to trace a vanishing—
butterfly that crossed her path days before just so,
the one her hands finally caught
and the impulse that made her hide
it under that rock. Afternoons later
how she wanted to retrieve it or
the time it took to scavenge the drawers
for an envelope to carry it home and so
and so. No. That isn’t right.
No life should lean on such fine margins.
Janice Pockett, we 70s children sleeved your name
in our bodies like an orange flash in the wind.
Your name became prayer.
Your mother is still searching the woods
for the rock, the room for the envelope,
the quick bright wings for your voice.
When we rode off on banana seats toward
our granted days, we wanted to bring you home.
When we said your name, we whispered.

— Jennifer K. Sweeney, author of Little Spells

T. S. Poetry

Advertisements