Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Astronomical Spring

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This morning at a certain time the sun
will align itself with the celestial equator:
You’re a lentil, pulp, a secret.
Outside the pear tree’s bloomed,
now sudden, starry white, snow
and winter's end in the same glance.


Mammalian placenta’s like aspens,
a network of hundreds of trunks
dividing to limbs, then branches,
twigs, then thinner, feelers floating
in a shallow lake of murk and vitamins.
It’s not that the sky was pink—it was the air.


My daily passing under crepe myrtle bowers,
their crimped fingernail crescent petals
loosening from cone clusters,
nestling in my hair. I buy an atlas,
walk nowhere hours. I’m lonely—
funny, since now I’m never alone.

The last stanza of "Astronomical Spring" appeared as the poem "Maps" in the Winter 2013 issue of Inch.

Kimberly O’Connor’s poems have appeared in Colorado Review, Copper Nickel, Hayden’s Ferry Review, storySouth, and elsewhere. She also writes the blog Poet’s Guide to Motherhood. She lives in Denver with her husband and daughter, Amelia.

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