When the doctor asked about the abyss
I feel in my bones, I showed him a box
of bent wires stripped from the radio so he’d
understand why I couldn’t echolocate.
I stopped drinking to trap the words.
Built birdbaths around the yard for ravens.
If they agreed to carry chimes
on their wings would the world sound
like a universal church? The only color I
can’t hear the music of is eggshell.
I paint my eyes blue again. My first child
sucked the color clean, took that brightness
for himself, now they are the first evening hour,
a glass forgotten in the sink.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 3.
Megan Merchant (she/her) lives in the tall pines of Prescott, AZ with her husband and two children. She holds an M.F.A. degree in International Creative Writing from UNLV and is the author of three full-length poetry collections with Glass Lyre Press: Gravel Ghosts (2016), The Dark’s Humming (2015 Lyrebird Award Winner, 2017), Grief Flowers (2018), four chapbooks, and a children’s book, These Words I Shaped for You (Philomel Books). Her latest book, Before the Fevered Snow, was released in April 2020 with Stillhouse Press.
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