Monday 29 March 2021

Five Poems by Heather McCuen

Spring Muse

what shall we call this hour 

when everything incites lust:

flowering perfumes,

creatures dancing to seduce and breed.

I remain open to your hands.

lift me into your blossoming chambers,

give to me the kiss the poets have known

and I will take your seed.

do not leave me barren,

even a verse will do: something to stir me

from a chilling slumber.

make me sing.

awaken all my bones like rainfall 

on roots after a drought.

give me a young, green cocoon 

to warm in my hands until it hatches 

and I will release new life into this lush season.

come, I have parted my mouth for a kiss,

and my fists are as buds, ready to be loosened.

Song to Spring

come rain, wet the mouths of lovers’ tongues.

seed, sow their hearts with words of poets.

let blossoms fall from their parted lips.

let the fragrance of passion,

overwhelm their senses.

come cherry and plum,

apple and peach,

open your blooms as a woman opens.

soon the trees will be gravid with fruit:

an abundance of much love-making.

Nymphs of Spring

we stumbled 

upon them in the orchard,

nymphs calling forth

           the trees to awaken,

apple and plum trees

           stirred in song.

buds as mouths 

opened from slumber,

singing forth fragrance

with wide, open blooms.

Spring Equinox

you lure me forward and awaken me to birds 

announcing the nearness of the sun.

you simply won’t let me ignore 

the way you are reawakening everything 

that has slumbered through Winter.

I rise, and an accumulation

of dust falls from my eyes, 

my covers, the window curtains.

I will join in your rebirth and no longer hide.

Spring Fever

it is Wednesday and the mother in me

wants to cradle you to sleep even as the

day is hot and running wild.

Wednesday is the middle, and I believe 

we may be stuck in this:

the middle of progress

the middle ground

the middle road

the middle of misinformation 

and misdiagnosis.

the damn hump.

and here we are, ill and discontented,

and I long, as you, to be comforted—

for the slightest breath of a cool breeze.

we cannot remember winter, or chilly

weeks or months in our delirium.

it has always been Wednesday and we

have always cried like babes with a fever,

and even the cool water has turned

against us—running lukewarm from

the spigot.

the ice machine is broken

the air conditioning, broken,

the lungs, head, the clock on the wall,

the love of life, dear god,

the middle of the week

and everything in the days before 

and hereafter are with me.

surely I am seeing the hours rotate

counter clockwise and it is still


and hot as hell. 

Heather McCuen, formerly known as Heather Dearmon, has poetry published in many

publications, including Fall Lines, Kakalak and Free State Review. She has a chapbook of poetry, water unto light (Finishing Line Press 2014). She lives in Lawrenceville, Georgia, USA.

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