Poetry by Cynthia White

Read More: A brief interview with Cynthia White

Mulberry

All summer I waited while her pale nubs
darkened and swelled. But my grandmother judged
the ripe berries unfit, something to do with the outhouse
so close, with what her preacher called—
and God, was he right—
that cauldron of lust and muck, the body.
A thing forbidden is a joy, maybe not
forever, but long enough to stain
my mouth violet with sweetness, to forget
my missing mother, her sickness
vague, a secret. One warm afternoon,
I left my grandmother dozing
over Revelation, then picked my way
through the weeds and heady reek. A girl,
pigeon-toed, skinny, my pear of a womb
still green as I caught a low branch,
shinnied heavenward and bit.

California Gray

I’m on the phone with my daughter
about the fox when she appears, in full […]

Eavesdrop

That place beneath the eaves on which
the water drips. In this case, the bathroom
of a Denver steakhouse, where I’m hearing

a girl pour out her heart via cell —
How can my mother love me if she never returns
my calls?  Thank goodness for this stall, […]