Rachael Lyon

Seasoned Green

Love, meet me somewhere close,
under the skin of an almond,
in a hollowed-out husk,
overturned bowl of an armpit,
a shoulder joint, a softness
I can nuzzle into. What do
we want for music? All around us
birdsong and motor-run,
trill and thrum, vibration on a drum,
window screen, dog bark
percussive, concussing
tremolo from the window,
garish, girlish, grappling
in the undergrowth,
playing cards stuck through
bicycle spokes that tick
tick tick tick tick along.
What are we but
crabapple blossoms
snowing down in April,
coating groundswell with
our fragrant lust? This small life
has enough to hold us here,
earlobe and clean sheets,
sun prisming through glass,
flower bud and yellow hum,
a clock that runs and runs.

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Rachael Lyon is a poet, essayist and translator. Her chapbook, The Normal Heart and How It Works, chronicles her experience with a congenital heart defect. She received a Fulbright grant to Vienna, Austria, to translate poetry from German. Her most recent translation project, a tree full of pearl-gray doves (ein baum voll perlgrauer tauben), is a book-length collection of contemporary poetry by Irmgard Löschner. Lyon’s poems have appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Southern Review and elsewhere. Her latest essay appeared in The Baltimore Review. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, son and dog.