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.

 

untitled

California Gray

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


Subscribers can read the full version by logging in.
Not a subscriber? Sequestrum is a pay-what-you-can journal:
Our rates are variable so that everyone can enjoy outstanding literature.
Access this and all our bi-weekly publications (and submit for free).

Subscribe Today



 

untitled

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, […]


Subscribers can read the full version by logging in.
Not a subscriber? Sequestrum is a pay-what-you-can journal:
Our rates are variable so that everyone can enjoy outstanding literature.
Access this and all our bi-weekly publications (and submit for free).

Subscribe Today



 

___________________________________
Cynthia White’s poems have appeared in ZYZZYVA, Poet Lore, Catamaran and CALYX. She’s been a finalist and semi-finalist for Nimrod’s Pablo Neruda Prize. She lives in Santa Cruz, California.

Cynthia White was a runner-up in the 2017 New Writer Awards (poetry).