Poetry: Ela Thompson’s “The Labyrinth”

Heavy Feather Review

My grandmother’s house was painted a dark, graying eggshell blue
and was very near the southern border of the Catskill Mountains.
After the death of my grandfather                   she sold the house, the barn, the many
acres of field and forest.                   No one was surprised.
Death                                 contaminates the heavy rivers of our bodies
and we must                             move on.
Bound as we are,                       even as a hidden culture,
her family has spread          out from that place—
a daughter in California,
a son in the Carolinas,
a son in Massachusetts,
a daughter in Wyoming
a daughter who never left
a daughter who never settled down—
like seeds on the wind,
only growing shallow roots                                   in acidic soils.
My mother, head of black curls,
once told me that we are like the rhododendron,
which blooms large, bright, and heavy in the woods,
belonging to the far place…

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Author: Private Bad Thoughts

Georgia Park is a poet and she loves you very, very, very much.

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