Julie Funderburk

~~

In the steam room

you need a deep breath to remind you—

you have lungs

and sunlight is yet somewhere

and tall grass

because all you can see is white

and all you can smell is steam

which has taken all sound

but the voice of your thought.

~~

You collect petals from the yard

to brew your own paint

though this hardly works.

Vivid forsythia will not steep.

But you need a color

of your own. You raid the kitchen

for turmeric. On cotton paper

you spill your concocted tea

to watch the stain of it.

You expect it to look like a whole

mountain burning, the feeling

of everything at once.

But your color is wheat stalks.

Morning. The interior of bamboo.

~~

For those hours, the dog

was caught, not missing—

was exactly where

she cried to be heard

in a thicket of thorns,

blackberries

already the color

of a collie’s lips.

~~

Carolina sky, white cloud line, the palest

blue ridges. You are alone with the panorama,

the massive vibration of quiet.

Layers of blue deepen

as mountains appear closer

then greener, the tops of trees visible.

Clouds here are learning 

to shape like mountains, or else

mountains are yearning to shape like clouds.

~~

Your first-ever solo apartment—

the vintage ironing board

folded out from a wall cabinet.

Radiator clank. The low sink, a big tooth

of chipped enamel. A bulb of garlic

was a novelty to you then. Always using

handed-down china, the plates you had.

At night, your window cast onto the street

the square of light which meant

you. That burning is you.

~~

On Tunnel Road, a warning: 

Drivers remove sunglasses.

In the dark interior

prayers must pierce

a density of earth.

Exhaust collects, water seeps

from walls of stone. As promised,

light is at the end—as soon

as you see it, allegiance returns

to the lit matches of the wildflowers. 

~~

Sky yellowed by pollen

without likelihood of rain.
What if it does, what if it rains,
streaks on windshields, petals

traveling toward the storm drains.

You can’t have your whole life planned.

~~

Lying against the ground

where it dips, where grass blades

are tough and thick. Arms flung out

in the dark, tearing handfuls

without looking, releasing

the sharp sweetness.

You do not think

a summer might come

you will not do this.

~~

Watermelon juice

collects in latticework

of the metal patio table,

clings then drips

onto knees. The green

bow of this ship

rocks under a spoon.

As a child, what you heard

seemed like a dare

to swallow a seed.

To grow inside

your own belly a fruit

with rows of seeds

tucked inside

countable as days.

~~

You walk by flashlight

with your people,                     

cold sand on the beach,

a ghost crab scuttering

from ocean wash.

Boisterous talking

you won’t remember

as words said, a distant

pier extending.

You will not get there,

the long light of the moon

and no reason out here

to hush. The foam

keeps gliding in.