This morning the owl’s last swoop sounds a fey go-home to all the mourning guests. But how can they go home?
Crocus and tulip tempt the hand that holds the vase while the flaming tongues of irises pray: go home.
I ate half the ruby fruit, left the rest for you. Oh, come to claim it soon, or else unsay go home.
My love, turn back when you reach the forest’s dark heart, where the rain engraves our lost names in clay—go home.
Under the earth the worms are swirling at your bones, above the starlings carol in sky’s bright sway. Go home.
Carolyn Oliver’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in FIELD, Indiana Review, The Shallow Ends, The Greensboro Review, Booth, Glass, Southern Indiana Review, and elsewhere. She is the winner of the Writer’s Block Prize in Poetry, selected by Maggie Smith. Carolyn lives in Massachusetts with her family. Links to more of her writing can be found at carolynoliver.net.