I cannot hear of bees, bombs
dropping like driving rain
that will drown, rocks that will cry out,
one in three and M-16s,
every inclination in a stranger or
in me. My ears, my door are shut
from the outside for 40
weeks, just the two of us amid creaks and groans.
You will rock inside my waters until
ready, Dove, you’ll leave me.
Then, I will attend to mud
and bones and altar stones
Melissa Weaver lives in Harrisonburg, Virginia, where she manages to tend to a steady husband, a preschooler, toddler and baby, an unruly backyard garden and occasionally, a poem or two. A former English and ELL 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, and Transforming, a publication of Virginia Mennonite Missions.