Evermore
Each of her wing strokes stokes
heavy air to currents
blends heat with movement
softens summer.
Many know that her hair
is sometimes a cloud
of unruly proportions
tangling spreading
into split ends thinning
frizzing
that each of her breasts
is a different size
that the bones of her face
are not identical
on each side
that her wingspan hangs
on mood time of year
age’s edge.
But inside—inside all
is cherry spangles light
shifting cobalt-raspberry-marigold-
beryl-ruby-bliss
tangerine flies from her fingertips
the roses of her hips swing ruddy
She is magic in cursive
alchemy writ large
rivers rushing to nowhere
everywhere to source
& back
evermore.
Poison from Balm
At night it’s hard to tell mountain
from plateau tree from shrub
from root woman
from child.
We know the crone reaches out
for us but from what tree?
Is she hidden behind oak or elm
or lilac bush or beneath twigs that snap
under our impatient soles?
Is that spectral blue an arm/hand/finger
or merely moon garnishing branch?
If that hag could hand us something—
an apple a ring a piece of chalk
a rope a resonant voice
which would she confer? Which
would we choose?
And if we could find the child
in us what would she wear—
lace sneakers a veil sun
poppies anger?
Whatever you have given the child
never mind. Take her hand
now and wander the night.
If you must trip over roots
stumble into fences
fall face first into ditches
then do so.
At some point she will meet
the crone and she will know poison
from balm.
Once she and crone have mingled
you will know poison
from balm.
Then you will discern mountain
and mesa ghost and root
and crescent wear
star and scale.
Three of t.m. thomson’s poems have been nominated for Pushcart Awards. She is co-author of Frame and Mount the Sky (2017) and author of Strum and Lull (2019), which placed in Golden Walkman’s 2017 chapbook competition, and The Profusion (2019). Her passions include kickboxing, playing in mud, and savoring art.