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2023 Christopher F. Kelly Award for Poetry

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Villanelle at 37

by Rosa Sophia

 

I miss the womb of that magic house, walking its garden, a lush labyrinth of green,
always here in a dream, running my hands along warm wooden walls, 
memorizing moments, abiding ancestors who call, long-distance, from the in-between. I yearn for the fruit: I can still taste the gooseberries growing down by the fence,
smell the forsythia, Queen Anne’s Lace, the pine when I press my nose to the trees. I miss the womb of that magic house, walking its garden, a lush labyrinth of green,
 then up the path to your porch. Please say I can stay. I hear you, Grandmother,
your laughter like daffodils in bloom. Every year older, I linger, held fast to our home, memorizing moments, abiding ancestors who call, long-distance, from the in-between. It’s been so long since I walked through the door, saw the plants hanging from macrame cords. Remember afternoon light shows from chandelier beads? I miss the womb of that magic house, walking its garden, a lush labyrinth of green,
 in dreams I yearn for the path under my feet. You smile like morning glories
before your death, as you ask, what’s next? My fingers press gentle against your palm, memorizing moments, abiding ancestors who call, long-distance, from the in-between. You felt a pain in your ribs, an empty ache, a hunger for summer, for sacred space. When it came to age, you’d forgotten yours, your essence gazing out a bright bay window. I miss the womb of that magic house, walking its garden, a lush labyrinth of green,
memorizing moments, abiding ancestors who call, long-distance, from the in-between.



This poem first appeared in Sentience Literary Journal, Volume 2, Issue 1.



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