the ugly spring: cracking crocus of you,
legs wide and muddy with the hard work of
bearing fruit:
plum juice on the doctor’s hands, what you used to call
small as a nectarine, a round pit in your stomach
is a whole girl cupped there.
your sunny-side-up girl,
hard lump in the throat girl,
you ate summer fruit so she’d be
sweet as july.
she is a blackberry pink thing,
everyone calls her peach,
asks where her sticky chin’s from, says her eyes
are so blue and what’s she always looking at?
this baby, she wouldn’t take her eyes off
the world for a second – she’s
been watching since before she even breathed in
the spring: you the brightest madrona flower,
seasoned mama, washing cherries with her at your hip.
Clair Dunlap grew up just outside Seattle, Washington, and started writing at the age of six. She lives in the Midwest and spends her time cooking, doing pilates, and missing the ocean. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Harpoon Review, Words Dance, and more. Her first collection of poetry will be released by Beard Poetry in 2016.