NAMES

I see Your shadow of light, knowing 
You see me—You speak in whispers, 
replying to my grief-drunk shouting, 
and when I try to name You, 
You only are—You are 
so many things, but only You, 
and You tell me, finally, 
a name I can call you:
that You are, and You are
here with me. 

By Heidi Turner

RAPIDS

I tried to keep the quiet inside me
but it would come out in screams,
shouts, words I’d never said aloud, 
underground caverns flooded, 
and the levies in my chest 
were forever breaking—
on my best days, I can speak 
in brooks, words drying in the sun. 

By Heidi Turner

THE HUSTLE

When God tore the water from water 
did he plan on making strata 
and little ducklings of his children? 

My wings shimmer in the sunlight
and in the murkier of the waters
I tread in desperation— 

Let me float even for a moment 
while I long for my migration 
to the middle class. 

By Heidi Turner

HOPE RINGS ON

We strike the harp 
in the ruins;
sing refrains in the storm 
that will sink us, 
we sleep in the shadows 
cast by angel’s wings 
and we live with the light 
that has already burned us,
because hope is a bell, 
it rings and rebels and rebels,
hope is a sparrow singing, 
hope is a criminal child.

By Heidi Turner

UNDERSTATEMENT

I long for sunrise 
and I dread the light—
I dance in the dark and I fall, 

I wonder and I fear 
and I can’t tell the difference
between them, 

 and I have forgotten the summer
in much the way I forgot you,
and now, remember remembering: 

the pictures traced over 
the faces faded 
the doorway, the song. 

By Heidi Turner

DAY SEVEN

I looked to You 
in the twilight of the morning,
the morning after you molded me
and asked for work to do, 

“Be still, the sun is rising,”
it rose; I stood beside you, 
and we sat beside a river 
and floated leaves down the stream,
“What must I do?”  
and still, the sun was shining.

 

And I put my hand to the earth 
to tend to all You’d planted,
“Be still, the sun is setting,” 
And I stood beside You:
we both saw that it was good. 

By Heidi Turner

ACHILLES

If I stand on the prow 
with a smile on my lips 
just remember there are stories 
that belong only to their bards
and when I stand on the shore
with a word stilled on my tongue 
remember who I am, and was, 
and when you read what I said 
even after I am gone, recall 
that I’ve never been one to kiss and tell, 
so just imagine what I don’t say. 

By Heidi Turner

PATIENCE

The kind of secret worth keeping 
is one that keeps itself, that does not 
leap to your lips at every beat 
in every conversation;
like the feeling of longing for London 
even under the shadow of its Eye, 
one cries for the intimacy of belonging 
only to the two of us. 

By Heidi Turner