Poems by Amy Allen
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Garden Date
by Amy Allen
From Canary Summer 2024
Amy lives on Shelburne Point in Vermont, a narrow strip of largely undeveloped land populated with everything from bobcats to porcupines, bordered by the expansive waters of Lake Champlain on one side, and the small, sheltered inlet of Shelburne Bay on the other, over which a wide array of birds commute—from lake to bay and bay to lake.
In the heat of July
you led me to where
the rhubarb pushed up
next to the old stone foundation,
its broad green leaves
shading crimson below
like celery steeped in red food coloring.
You pulled a stalk from the dirt
broke it in half and placed it in my palm.
I held it tart against my tongue
met your eyes as my teeth sank in.
After weeding and watering
you led me to the cellar
where it was dark and cool.
Your worn hands pushed the
hem of my dress
up around my hips.
I could hear the sparrows
and smell the earth
and everything
was dripping with sweetness.
© Amy Allen
Motherhood
by Amy Allen
From Canary Summer 2024
Her ears are like broad mussel shells
jutting out from her head—deep and alive
flickering in a syncopated rhythm
with the swish of her tail
the blink of her eyelashes
the flaring of her nostrils
the shifting of her hooves.
Her calf seeks shelter against her
no longer able to sidle underneath.
Today the farmers will separate them—
far enough to prevent nursing
close enough for both to hear the wailing—
the calf bawling for the loss of all she knows
the mother howling at the despair of not providing.
That night you lie atop sheets in summer’s still heat
arise and slowly pull the windows shut.
© Amy Allen