Two Bowls of Milk by Stephanie Bolster

COME TO THE EDGE
 
    Come to the edge of the barn the property really begins there
,
    you see things defining themselves, the hoofprints left by sheep,
    the slope of the roof, each feather against each feather on each goose.
    You see the stake with the flap of orange plastic that marks
    the beginning of real. I’m showing you this because
    I’m sick of the way you clutch the darkness with your hands,
    seek invisible fenceposts for guidance, accost spectres.
    I’m coming with you because I fear you’ll trip
    over the string that marks the beginning, you’ll lie across the border
    and with that view – fields of intricate grain and chiselled mountains,
    cold winds already lifting the hairs of your arm – you’ll forget your feet,
    numb in straw and indefinite dung, and be unable to rise, to walk farther.
    My fingers weave so close between yours because I’ve been there
    before, I know the relief of everything, how it eases the mind to learn
    shapes it hasn’t made, how it eases the feet to know the ground
    will persist. See those two bowls of milk, just there,
    on the other side of the property line, they’re for the cats
    that sometimes cross over and are seized by a thirst, they’re
    to wash your hands in. Lick each finger afterwards. That will be
    your first taste, and my finger tracing your lips will be the second.
MANY HAVE WRITTEN POEMS ABOUT BLACKBERRIES
    But few have gotten at the multiplicity of them, how each berry
    composes itself of many dark notes, spherical,
    swollen, fragile as a world. A blackberry is the colour of a painful
    bruise on the upper arm, some internal organ
    as yet unnamed. It is shaped to fit
    the tip of the tongue, to be a thimble, a dunce cap
    for a small mouse. Sometimes it is home to a secret green worm
    seeking safety and the power of surprise. Sometimes it plunks
    into a river and takes on water.
    Fishes nibble it.
    The bushes themselves ramble like a grandmother’s sentences,
    giving birth to their own sharpness. Picking the berries
    must be a tactful conversation
    of gloved hands. Otherwise your fingers will bleed
    the berries’ purple tongue; otherwise thorns
    will pierce your own blank skin. Best to be on the safe side,
    the outside of the bush. Inside might lurk
    nests of yellowjackets; rabid bats; other,
    larger hands on the same search.
    The flavour is its own reward, like kissing the whole world
    at once, rivers, willows, bugs and all, until your swollen
    lips tingle. It’s like waking up
    to discover the language you used to speak
    is gibberish, and you have never really
    loved. But this does not matter because you have
    married this fruit, mellifluous, brutal, and ripe.
SEAWOLF INSIDE ITS OWN DORSAL FIN
Seawolf Inside Its Own Dorsal Fin
, Robert Davidson, 1983. Screenprint.
    I sleep in the red of my rising
    arc, curled tight and finned
    within fin, rocked by black
    water I rock. I learn this one part
    of myself, each degree
    of its curve, how the water
    foams against warm skin.
    My fin learns me, the thing
    it is part of but does not
    belong to. We make each other,
    my fin and myself, myself
    and the taut water.
    When my fin breaks the sea’s
    skin, through shut eyes I glimpse
    wave within wave, stone
    within stone, I surge
    through all the layers,
    my own incessant crest.
LIFE AND DEATH IN THE CONSERVATORY
    This dome opened
    the year of my birth.
    My whole life stands
    on this wooden bridge, arched
    over water.
    Below, plump and golden
    fish ripen.
    Foliage, hushed as silk, encroaches.
ASSORTED FLORA
Nasturtiums
    Always plural,
    rampant.
    Edible because
    something must be finished off,
    your unflinching
    ruffled orange and gold,
    your tart leaves.
    Even aphids will not
    do the trick.
    Even inclement weather.
    Even in October
    you assert yourselves,
    outdoing the leaves,
    the smug pumpkins.
Iris
    Your spine is a secret grief.
    Rooted in inconstant mud,
    you manage to stand, proud
    though purple marks the perfect
    white of your throat.
    But cut, left
    alone in a vase,