WINTER 2013 (Issue 77)

Lucien Darjeun Meadows


Open your eyes, Mother, as I lift the heavy
bucket to pour water through your sieve. Watch
the liquid changing colour in the light. We stand
in your new kitchen; you wear the sunrise in
your pink pants and yellow shirt while I am
muddy in navy cargo shorts. Outside, time stops

as we wait for thunder with an ache profound
and nameless as dreaming. Yesterday, walking alone
in the forest, following the trail of red-breasted
blackbirds, I found a grove of violets late blooming
in the shade. Mother, what remains when seasons
shift, the tense changes, and your daughter becomes

your son? That night, I stood in darkness before
a mirror, and my body shone softly, smudged
with silver like a cocoon, and I watched this new
silhouette with eyes dark and fathomless as those
of a starved cat remembering the taste of birdflesh.