Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Children’s Hospital, 2011

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On the fifth sleepless night
I scavenged drawers of bedside
table hoping for a dog-eared magazine
or hospital pamphlet, depending
on at least a navy blue Bible
                                                     placed by THE GIDEONS

Nesting with dust bunnies and foreign strands
of hair, beneath the uncracked spine of New Testament,
was a phone book
                                        Greater Lexington Area

The cover was filmy and smudged like cabinets
in a well-used kitchen. I thumbed pages, house numbers,
fences I'd hopped, the names of friends' fathers--
those trellises that splintered under the awkward vines
of their daughters' growth.

An IV pump droned
through stale night noise. Your mouth
the color of bruised peach. I was thankful
for something though I wasn't
sure what.

Leigh Anne Hornfeldt lives in Kentucky with her husband and three young sons. Her poems have appeared in Foundling Review, Untitled Country Review, The Meadowland Review, and elsewhere. Audio of her work may be found online at Soundzine and Red Lion Sq. She is the recipient of the 2012 Kudzu Prize in Poetry and was a semifinalist for the 2012 Mary Kay Ballard Poetry Prize.

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I enjoyed this poem very much. I love the line "those trellises that splintered..." Such great imagery there. And fitting with the reflective and nostalgic leaps that the mind often makes when contemplating life and death and the meaning of it all. Nicely done.
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