by Abigail Brandt
Church bells from the sleeping village
chime the dreaming hours.
Chill October nights
sweeten the late harvest grapes
that drowse in the dark,
clustered on twisted vines.
In these hills beyond borders,
émigrés lose themselves
in webbed shadows.
They have lost everything.
Right now, they wish for invisibility,
disappearing until dawn in dark clothing.
They wish for a bed, a warm coat. Home.
Black hijabs cover the women’s heads.
A young woman comforts
the baby at her breast.
She remembers her jadda,
her grandmother, singing,
Low hangs the morning star.
Dull like a fading scar.
© Abigail Brandt
This poem was recently published by “my sisters press” in the author’s book Bones of My Life: https://www.dharmaseeds.org/poetica.
Abigail Brandt is a West Coast native. She has produced and directed numerous arts and literary events, edited poetry journals, and served as a poetry event consultant. She co-founded and directed the Santa Barbara Poetry Festival, and for 10 years led the Carpinteria Poetry Workshop. Her poetry has won statewide contests in California and Oregon. Her poems have appeared in literary journals including Art/Life, Café Solo, Calyx, Spectrum, and Talus & Scree, and anthologies, including California’s Wild Edge and The Geography of Home: California’s Poetry of Place. She lives in Salem, Oregon with her husband Werner Brandt.