Restoration of the Delphic Sibyl
detail of the Sistine ceiling

Not so much sky as ceiling. I darken with candle
             soot, palm print. My life is spent

this way: grit-pressed, obedient. Peel of my finger-

tips and heels. Hear the plotting: paint touch,
               give her a new red mouth. Call me

fan dried, renewed. A chisel deep

inside my eyes. Stack of scaffolding, sand-
               paper scrape. Ask nothing of me

while the plaster hardens my skin. Not

how I have seen the burn of a leather strap, how
               a father could not save his son

from the thorn bloom, each spear strike.

How a tree split into a cross and I carried
               his son’s face on my clothes.

I still wear that grief, its dark sweat. Brush
               this from my throat, bury it.

 
Limbo for the Miscarry

                    Over the fence
the oleanders scarve the earth

with their bright pink blooms. Listen—
someone walks into the yard

and plants a bulb. Birdbath, drained
to dry. You, not born again of water,

but ghost, your breath’s red light.

Everything is a sign of your nearing—
air, its winged back, how you wash

the rafters with your drizzled
rain. Sunlight, less than

you are to her. Hold up the hem
of her dress, see how far

she thinks you’ve gone. Side of her

knee, thigh-down, pooled
in a sock, under fingernail. Far,

you’ve already come. Back
to the edge of the house, lattice

of grass and weeds. There—you
finger-plant spring, unnoticed. Redbuds
open below, break the mid-

point of rock and ground. It’s what you see

when you see yourself already dying,
how your paper tongue petals

her hand, silences the yard.

 
Beatitude 2
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.


​The mourners gathered on the porch. No one wanted to be the first to ring the doorbell, to enter the house with their hat in hand, or a chicken casserole wrapped in aluminum. The words of grief: isn’t it a shame, isn’t it awful? The man had died young, arms outstretched, hanging by his wrists.
 
The will was read later in the week. The friend with the expense account and yacht expected to receive the largest of the estate—hadn’t he known his friend for nearly 30 years? Hadn’t they shared the same bicycle seat, a bag of M&Ms? He’d lost touch. There was the stint in rehab, the blonde in Bermuda. His friend had sent postcards—I miss you, come back. He never answered, stuck them in a drawer next to his pipe tobacco and flask.
 
Another friend sat in the back while the will was read, pulled at her shirt until it frayed. She had grieved for days. She talked out loud, thought he could hear her. Where have you gone? Once, she thought she saw the same shoulders, same back of the head buying The White Album. Impossible—the open casket, the wounds dressed for viewing. I saw him.
 
The lawyer read to the crumple of Kleenex, the checking of watches. What do I get? The first friend asked. You, the lawyer said, you get the hammer and nails, his mother’s blue dress. The lawyer turned to the second friend. You have inherited the earth, he said, handing her the papers and a pen.
 
She never questioned her inheritance. Never said, how big is the earth, how do I cross it? The next day, she bought a spade, a garden hose, began to trench. She said to the toadstool, this will be umbrella, this will be shade. She cracked the crust and watched the lava river, the ocean salt. She planted a tree, took to the business of counting the bushels of fruit and blooms. She said to the air, hello, you are there, I breathe and you find me.
 

Amanda Auchter is BOMB’s 2006 Poetry Prize Winner.
Special thanks to contest judge Susan Wheeler, author of the poetry collections Bag ‘o’ Diamonds and Source Codes. BOMB congratulates Susan’s four finalists, who made it very difficult to select a winner: Jessica Bozek (Athens, GA), Rebecca Keith (Brooklyn, NY), Michael Quattrone (New York, NY), and Bronwen Tate (Providence, Rl).
 
Amanda Auchter is the editor of Pebble Lake Review and the author of the chapbook Light Under Skin (Finishing Line Press, 2006). She is the recipient of the 2005 James Wright Poetry Award from Mid-American Review and the 2005 Milton Kessler Memorial Poetry Prize from Harpur Palate. Her recent work appears or is forthcoming in AGNI Online, Best New Poets 2006, Columbia Poetry Review, LIT, Pleiades, and elsewhere. She is completing her first full-length collection.
 

Tags:
Grief
Death
poetry contest
BOMB 99
Spring 2007
The cover of BOMB 99
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