Jen Fueston

The whole of a life,
a berry in my throat.
a sugar cube dissolving
in the tongue’s hollow.
Some days I live with
no past, and no name
but mother—she is
immortal, without
biography. I was before
her—as the full flower
is before the seed that
it bears to remake itself.
EASTER, 2020
Whatever holy day has woken,
somebody first put water to boil,
or laid the birch logs across
a fire, someone
tended to your life. When you reached 
for a cup, it was clean and waiting.
Even those cold mornings
it was your own body rising by habit 
toward a stale, familiar bread, 
late snow bending the lip of the lilies.