Like upside-down brooms
that once swept cabin floors in a war
or flew witches through some Puritan woods,
black as the backs once lashed
by such branches,
they stand stripped,
bending against an evening gale
like a mother in grief
curled into unnatural shapes
to the brink
to the moment she might snap
for good this time,
howling for her son to return,
for some sign of life,
a small pinkish hand
or reddish bud
something
anything
to let her know this winter will pass.
–
Beth Boylan’s poems have appeared in a variety of journals, including Apeiron Review, Chronogram, Cooweescoowee, Dying Dahlia, Gyroscope Review, Jelly Bucket, and Wilde. She holds an M.A. in literature from Hunter College. Originally from New York, she now resides near the ocean in New Jersey, where she teaches English.