Temple Solstice

by Lisa Russ Spaar

Lisa Russ Spaar

Glinty as spittle,

prink of shortest-day sun
straddles the black ridge,

vault whose ancient pewter speech,

parsed by cloud-cleaved
pulmonary geese, pulsed leaves,

draws me into ohmming hemlocks,

saint’s sleeves,
vulnerable resinous wrists.

Beyond or suffused with pain?

Both. Even the moon
does not speak my language

as many times as we’ve conversed.

Comb me, tricked-up wind.
Quick, before you change your polar name.


Last updated December 17, 2022