Poem by Jean Howard, Summer/Fall 2016
*
(Services of William Reese)
At the grave site,
as each star is swallowed
by a fold
or white-glove tuck,
the flag moves,
slowly, precisely,
each tug calculated
and rehearsed.
The gatherers are silent,
hearing each move,
though inaudible.
The only sound lifting
above us is a baby
whose lips begin suckling
in his mother’s arms.
The sound, so visceral,
so intense, its primal longing
moving him closer
to his mother’s breast,
is drifting upward
above the flag
as it slowly, steadily,
crawls toward its end.
The crisp finality
of its pointed blue
floats within
the widow’s arms
as the mother steps away,
the infant clamping beneath
her shawl onto the nearest
nipple.
*
A participant in the original development of the internationally acclaimed Poetry Slam, Jean Howard’s poetry has appeared in Harper’s Magazine, The Revolution of The Spoken Word, The Chicago Tribune, as well as over 120 literary publication, with her book of poetry, Dancing In Your Mother’s Skin, being awarded two grants for publication.
Organizer of the annual National Poetry Video Festival for eight years, she has performed in hundreds of venues nationally, from biker bars to contemporary art museums, with her own award-winning video poems airing on cable and public television and film festivals. www.jeanchoward.com
Original publication: This poem was originally published in Evening Street Press, Fall 2016 issue #15 www.eveningstreetpress.com