Three Poems by Cindy Rene

February 15, 2023

Mothering

Sometimes I push you out with my door,
and you pushed me out with a force that
has carried me forward that
has lasted me all these years that
have become every day that I live

untitled.

the bones hike up
this land and produce

fissures where
it collects

collisions
of cracked skin

holding it in the basin, I waited stroking some of its blackened leaves

                 crossing over

a memory

                                  in this water

                                                         crossing that bridge

                                  to walk

in this water:
I watch my grandfather
stomp through mud
on the end of a question
on leaves blackened bulging

I imagine
you stomp through mud
squeeze the secrets between your toes
rub the basil,  blackened, on your heels
tap it on your face

across that bridge
I always imagined you
wandering
somewhere answers follow you down the body
through mud, blackened,
on the ash

cross the bridge
you walked as the question my father gave
at the end

About Cindy Rene

Cindy Rene, born and bred in Brooklyn, is a writer whose work has been featured in Plantin Magazine and Villanova University’s Bridges Review. Her current obsessions include exploring spiritual family ties and archiving the past through her body. She received her BA from Villanova University.

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