Conjuror | Rachel Ikins

An unattended death---all the yous

you shed as a crab moults skin...

We have always lived with violence,

each small loss violent,

snipping a stitch.

So much to remember.

The dandelion squats when it hears

the lawnmower blade. Chlorophyll’s scent

bleeds a green scream. Unintended death

or is it?

Moose hunter, salmon fisher,

You fleshed her out. Filled her skin

with your dreams, your heartbeat.

Built her house and then

built a house for mother. Alaska’s

half-wild woman. Nobody sees

when she lays her hand

on the moose’s neck,

when she filets the salmon for winter.

Unexpected life when I fell out of love.

I did not mean to.

So much to remember;

sharpen the blade.

Don’t nick the colon,

keep the meat sweet.

Wind forces it’s breath down my throat

Barometer grips my chest, no love lost.

I gave up the bones of me.

Nobody sees the hunter lay a hand,

her hand’s cup around a small bald head,

breathed for just one day.

Nobody sees.

Someone’s mother

lays her fingers against my face

Draws stripes on my cheeks.

My closed eyes, my lips speak the

code without sound.

A ray of lightning blooms on my forehead,

and a poem opens its heron’s beak

to snatch back

those lost bones.

Rachael Ikins is a 2016/18 Pushcart nominee, 2018 Independent Book Award winner, 2024 winner 2nd place Northwind Writing Awards, author/artist of 13 books. Her cats remain unimpressed with this and will sit on the keyboard if she works past their mealtimes. Her poetry and art work has appeared in NYC, Paris, France and Washington DC. Syracuse University grad, member Bayou City branch NLAPW, and Associate Editor of Clare Songbirds Publishing House, Auburn, NY.