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Kelley White
Kelley White studied at Dartmouth College and Harvard Medical School and worked as a pediatrician in inner-city Philadelphia for more than twenty-five years. Mother of three, she is an active Quaker, and has recently returned to her small New Hampshire village and begun work at a rural health center in the North Country. Her poems have been widely published over the past decade, in journals including
Exquisite Corpse, Nimrod, Poet Lore, Rattle and the
Journal of the American Medical Association and in several chapbooks and full-length collections. She is the recipient of a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant in poetry.
Salt Suite IV: I’d like a Smaller
Footprint
I’d like a tunnel, a tent,
a torn green tarp, a longer braid,
a lace cap, a brown
leather shoelace,
maple syrup, your brother’s
cough, my shoes outside the door,
my ugly feet—oh hold—
your drowned man,
my drowning sailor
we say: we sink
we say: the water
bears us up
Salt Suite V: She drank
face up and staring through her heavy hair
floating
and the colorless sea blooms,
a bride
the thick bowl
of her beating heart
Salt Suite VI: Who Led the Naked Child Against the Surf?
If I lead you to the water,
if I ease you in, back against
the tide, will you trust me
to keep you
breathing,
can I trust you
to breathe
not to swallow anger
and sink
is it always our mothers
forcing us to breathe?
your drowned man,
my drowning sailor
one broken egg
are you planning the wedding?
I sent you salt.
Salt Suite VII: Is It Always Our Mothers
Forcing Us to Breathe?
That moment we drop the child’s hand:
he offered to wash the sand from my feet
I had to leave my shoes outside the door
my good hand an oar
my hair a whisper of torn sail
I’d like a jar without sides
iron feathers
a blank leather shoelace
my ugly feet
an abandoned umbrella
that moment we say yes
to the water
who did this thing?
sinking flowers
in the sand
Salt Suite VIII: Like a Phone Call
About an Angry Tooth
What living water?
This man with the puffed pink scars
down his chest—
and could I make it to shore with one arm
under your shoulder?
We say: we sink
We say: the water bears us up
Hold
A longer braid,
a lace cap
Is it always our mothers
forcing us to breathe
and what are sobs
but hunger?
Salt Suite IX: Womb Warm
Maple fingers
Your brother’s cough
Who led the naked child
against the surf?
I’d like an empty skate
I’d like a smaller footprint
Are you planning the wedding? -
And what have you brought up
from the bottom?
The thick bowl
of her beating heart.
Salt Suite X: It Was the Way
She Welcomed the Water
her thirst
eyes open, gulping
great mouth
full even as she pushed
beneath the threshold
and let water
cover her face
it takes a long time
to get past a house
now that you can see
a little light
I’d like a tunnel
a tent
a torn green tarp
and the colorless sea blooms
a bride
willful, her drunk exhausted arms
that was the shock
to see her swallow death
to see her
suck at death’s breast
Salt Suite XI: Iron Feathers
he offered to wash the sand from my feet
(what living water?)
that moment we drop the child’s hand
(a longer braid, a lace cap)
it takes a long time to get past a house
(I’d like a jar without sides)
and what have you brought up from the bottom?
your drowned man, my drowning sailor
(is it always our mothers
forcing us to breathe?)
Salt Suite XII: And Could I Make It
to Shore with One Arm
under Your Shoulder?
Are you planning the wedding?
as if a bowl of fresh
water could keep us safe
from the sea
I’d like an angry shovel
my ugly feet
an abandoned umbrella
one broken egg
now that you can
see a little light
I’d like a tunnel
the stones know where
it’s safe to lie
Salt Suite XXIII: To Hold All That Stiff Salt Anger
I had to leave my shoes
outside the door
my good hand an oar
my hair a whisper of torn sail
the thick bowl of her beating heart
a blank leather shoelace
I sent you salt
a painted stone
and the colorless sea blooms,
a bride
if I led you to the water
if I eased you in
and when the mother comes to life
the shoulders
to make a cup
of her chest
that moment we say yes to the water
not to swallow anger
and sink
copyright © Kelly White
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