Steven Kunert- Three Poems

Steven Kunert, of Corvallis, Oregon, has been writing and publishing his poetry and prose for over 40 years. He previously published poems in Dead Snakes in 2014.

Bird Mama

I was about eight when the young hawk

died in Mother’s hands, and she said

Death always hangs there

but life always hovers higher.

Later, she fed a fallen cedar waxwing nestling

from an eyedropper filled with orange juice and apple mush,

while in a cage next to her

a once lame sparrow chirped, I’m ready.

I saw them come, injured or half dead.

I saw them fly again or go to the dirt

in our yard, where she always put those.

One day I pointed to a robin’s feather

rising from under the soil.

No worry, she said. It will go up

or it will stay down. Either way, you’ll be fine.

The Old Poet Said

You don’t know where you’re going

when you start, but never to some planet

still and silent and without air.

Doing a poem, doing a life,

is encountering a succession of impulses

and perceptions and surprising thoughts

upon simple encounters. Take the quiet,

then realize you are different from other people,

how you treat all things like the purpose of breathing.

Take the quiet, then write because you need to gut someone,

drill into their soul, kill their hates.

Take the quiet, and some undisturbed current

of your life will make its way into the interval

between the pencil you hold and fingers that strum time.

Take the quiet, see the first words

your subconscious calm puts down,

and watch them go, maybe even veer

into some doing paper never knew.

The Young Authoress

Her mother complained she was too self-important,

and her Dad said, Lord save you.

Her brother called her a weirdo

and her sister stressed: don’t show me.

Her best friend didn’t get it,

her cousin Gina suggested therapy

and her boyfriend shrugged, whatever.

Uncle Jim said, you’re pretty darn good

but then I’m no expert,

while Aunt Emily preached that God

expects much more from you.

Grandma said, help me, dear, with this,

and Grandpa had no comment.

Her self-inflicted wound delved

unexpectedly as her final note,

the coroner wrote.