Tag Archives: Amy Pollard

Perceptions of a 5-year-old

by Amy Pollard

Red. Blue. Purple.
Crayons spattered on a blank page.
Finger paint dripping on a poster board.
Face. Arms. Legs.
Head popped off of a doll.
Jenga blocks dumped on the rug.
Bent. Folded. Flat.
White cloth spread over the table.
Mama on the bathroom floor.



by Amy Pollard

Love molds her mountain with bare, blistered hands
scatters rocks trees cliffs
she is everywhere she
is nowhere
the formula eludes even travelers whose bruised
feet know her well,
wayfarers whose walking sticks
snap in the hot, brittle wind
At dawn I climb her beaten cliff and exhale into
her like a red balloon
lightly, of course, to avoid her popping
and a billion almosts gushing out

Into Earth

by Amy Pollard

I plant you in the suckling earth
You grow as a song

Laughter springs from your limbs
Sprouting from unbroken soil

Chorded in green
Resonance, your body

Still, you dream of burning up
Of tasting the winged sun

Your unaccustomed skin
Throbbing in the supple red flames

But your twisted feet sink further into

A sparrow laments your fall, beak heralding heaven,
Talons dug into your tangled, mossy flesh

Your brown fingertips now

Your leaves take flight
To rouse the bristling dawn

Every tree is rooted but