ISSN: 1941-4137
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
Tara Shea Burke is a cis-femme-queer poet from the Blue Ridge Mountains and Hampton Roads. She's a writing instructor, tutor, editor, and yoga teacher who has taught and lived in Virginia, New Mexico, and Colorado. She believes in community building, encouragement, and process-based living and art. Her chapbook Let the Body Beg was published in 2014 and recent poems can be found in Yes, Poetry, Rogue Agent, and the anthology Reading Queer: Poetry in a time of Chaos from Anhinga Press.
In Defense
this morning as we milked our goat I yelled at you with rage I thought reserved for family or myself this after your simple reminder tinged with annoyance to keep the milking tools sanitary how quick the grit of my jaw grind of my teeth shot look back as if you killed one of our dogs snap of my voice like the nagging wife I promised you I’d never be when rage wins I am not human in defense I am more animal than ever not devoted canine or shy milking goat more mother grizzly protecting some inner vulnerable cub you held the kid in your lap his eyes grew heavy and soft I hobbled momma’s hoof to the milking stand you built from scrap wood cleaned her udder the way you explained with patience after doing all the research attached the milker you bought to her teat started the hand pump she kicked and the kid nodded off in your arms the air softened as we marveled at the gallon of milk made in mere minutes while momma munched her grain later I am alone you are at work goats asleep in their little barn yes you built that too it’s true I help I hand you tools help place bricks once you share your blueprints I’d like to say that before I loved you I was never afraid that I was happy drinking wine alone in my apartments eating whole pizzas but rage is a kind of grip I’m scared of everything mostly loss every time I leave home now that we’ve moved to the country I drive off imagine the house burns to the ground with our four dogs kenneled inside or while home alone lazy pups draped over my thighs I see your long drive over the mountain in a snowstorm picture a truck losing it on the ice I can smell the searing skin see your face trapped beneath a crushed car frame what I mean is I’m sorry I love you never leave
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
All contents © the author.
