The Branches Bending and Bending (Grimm)

It’s always daytime for the sun. Trying to get in right now
through the westward curtain. Like those people who refuse

to mope, see only the good. Oh, wait, that’s me. But sometimes
I’m around the globe amusing myself with glaciers. Look at that

shine although I was never a sequin girl--lamé, bedazzling
unknown. Except maybe in my head when a moment opens itself

to glory, all the arms upraised. The wonder of kissing a small warm
head that doesn’t pull away. Of noting the very clear water collecting

in the kiddie pool The branches bending and bending away
from the lake so that no one can ever think we don’t move

and change. If we were lighter (closer to light?) skittering over the porch
floor, down the street, caught up next to a curb or between two strands

of that spider’s web. Just one job--to burn and spread like alleluia. Not fussy
like those tiny bits of gold on cooking shows or the lengthy painting

of the dull hair on my head. Just shine in rays and layers, lapping
like water over every last thing. Not exclusive like a spotlight but bold

with everyone. The horizon a flirtation zone. Relentless against buildings,
steady in the desert and loyal as a dog. Not rare but everywhere, come.


Susan Grimm is a poet who lives in Cleveland. She has been published in Poetry East, The Cincinnati Review, The Journal, and Field. Currently, she's sending out a manuscript called Slap of Beauty.