Poems & Essays

18 Sep


General/Column No Response

Ballerinas’ toes are black.

Thorns of lead lace
rose-window tracery.

Marie’s bones burned
from laughing long days
in potato-shed/stable,
Radium salt glowing by her bedside—
and they called her Nobel.

My grandfather baptized
bursts of hands and light and strung
immortal moments in dark clouds
of Sulphur-dioxide.

I think of this when my knees prick
with crumbs and my thumbs wrinkle
like a kitchen-sink Sisyphus.
When I get on eye-level
to find what fell
from a diaper, I swear

there must be a sonnet
in here somewhere.



Melissa Weaver lives in Harrisonburg, Virginia, where she manages to tend to a steady husband, three small children, an unruly backyard garden and occasionally, a poem or two. A former English and ESL teacher, she seeks to be deeply rooted in her neighborhood, building relationships with kids and families who have come from all over the world. Her work has appeared in Mothers Always Write, The Christian Century, The Anabaptist Journal of Australia and New Zealand, Transforming, a publication of Virginia Mennonite Missions, and Anabaptist Witness (forthcoming).

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