by Cynthia White

The sofa she lounged on—
with Michener, with Updike and Roth—
was not burnished, not a throne,
but though she’s been dead
years now, it burns.
Against cloth of Harvest Gold,
her curls gleamed—
Summer Blonde by Clairol—
and bright flecks gilded the glass
she drank from, like alluvium washed
down from great heights. As for her person,
her aspect could vanquish
the Stygian gloom of any bar.
My sisters and I, no matter the hour,
would attend her. Bound
as we were, by blood. On occasion,
my father would leave the house
and return with a paper bag, brimful
of Oh! Henrys and Cadbury Creams.
She wouldn’t get up. But what there was,
she’d polish off in small, tragic bites.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Cynthia White's work has appeared in Adroit, Massachusetts Review, Plume, New Letters, and ZYZZYVA, among others. She was a finalist for Slapering Hol's Poetry Chapbook Prize and the winner of the Julia Darling Memorial Prize for poetry. She lives in Santa Cruz, California.

by Cynthia White

I root around in the box, wanting
to wear my mother’s pearls again
before I die. Or the tiny diamonds
my husband bought to court me,
veined turquoise from Taos,
amber, any amount of silver,
clip-on rhinestones—gorgeous
but sheer murder. One hot morning,
Bernadette the freckled, the brave,
plucked a ripe plum from her yard,
held it fast to my skull as she steered
a sewing needle through my unspoiled lobes.
I would have suffered worse—
and did, in truth—
to be a tramp in my mother's eyes.
Among sailors, a pierced ear once signified
the wearer had crossed the equator,
voyaged far and wide. I don’t know
who moved on, or away. I only know
that when I bled, she stooped
to swab the ruby drops with iodine,
gold hoops swinging.

______________________________________________________________________

Cynthia White's poems have appeared in Adroit, Narrative, Massachusetts Review, Grist and ZYZZYVA among others. She was a finalist for Slapering Hol's 2021 Chapbook Prize and the winner of the Julia Darling Memorial Prize from Kallisto Gaia Press. She lives in Santa Cruz, California.

by Cynthia White

Because I’ve slowed
to a tempo I used to dream of
back when my children were children,
I’ve taken up new pastimes—
crosswords, birds, obituaries.

Mornings, I walk a narrow canyon
that leads to a graveyard,
practicing my skills.
Black-headed grosbeak? Warbler
or wren? What’s a four-letter word

for end? I won’t call them golden,exactly, these moments.
Picture something darker—
light struggling through trees,
finding its way.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Cynthia White's poems have appeared in Narrative, New Letters, Poet Lore, ZYZZYVA, and Grist among others. She's been both finalist and semi-finalist for Nimrod's Pablo Neruda Prize and was the winner of the Julia Darling Memorial Prize from Kallisto Gaia Press. She lives in Santa Cruz, California.