Elizabeth Porter

As brittle shale pops against the fire
The ghost of an ancient hemlock splinters slowly
A wet and hissing peel. Bark from marrow

Every night breaks gently. Headlights
Split the passenger seat where she holds two halves.
A cracked tortoiseshell, twin lens.

What is cohesion without adhesive? Even books
Require intention and glue. Sinew to hold 
Hairs, feathers, and assumptions in place.

But every Spring, the creeper vines re-knit
Themselves. An osprey returns to an impatient mate.
A concert of green and sharp milky sap.

You press your face back into mine, and I
Accept the mending. Bone needle and waxed thread.
Our torn leaves sutured. Green wood.

 

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ELIZABETH PORTER lives and writes in south-central Pennsylvania. She earned her degree in English from Shippensburg University in 2007 and has been an educator since 2020.