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 producefissures where
it collectscollisions
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.