BY LAUREN DAVIS
Little Bean
The doctor tells me he found—
in my brain—something. Nothing
to do, but give it a name. Little bean.
Sparrow’s eye. Lost pearl. It is mine.
I made it. Appleseed, my pale bead.
When I am still enough, it sings.
Brain Growth Undiagnosed in the Month of July
Aberration, you will either be
my everything or my nothing.
Once a man I loved raised his fist to me.
He stood close enough I could
smell him. In that moment I felt
a thing close to unknown.
If you grow, my sweet pea,
you will cut the stream.
Or you might disappear like
dew. I could love you either way.
Today, men set off fireworks
because when this country left
its mother, we were happy.
I think you are maybe a gift,
like when noon creeps in
where there’s been always
winter light. I see everything
now. I see the missed moment
I might have held my palms
to the grass. They call
this prayer. Even in the day
I hear a pop like gunshots
but it’s just children playing
with fire. Some say it’s wasteful
to burn sparklers in the sun
but this is not the type of person
I keep in my life. I keep in my life
you—visitor long overdue.
Little wick, lit.
Lauren Davis is the author of Home Beneath the Church, forthcoming from Fernwood Press, and the chapbook Each Wild Thing’s Consent, published by Poetry Wolf Press. She holds an MFA from the Bennington College Writing Seminars, and she teaches at The Writers’ Workshoppe and Imprint Books. She is a former Editor in Residence at The Puritan’s Town Crier and has been awarded a residency at Hypatia-in-the-Woods. Her work has appeared in over fifty literary publications and anthologies including Prairie Schooner, Spillway, Poet Lore, Ibbetson Street, Ninth Letter and elsewhere.