Poetry - Issue 03 | February 2009

Two Poems by Laurie Byro


I follow him to Cyprus,
to grow us a garden of poppies—
scarlet, like spilled blood.

At first, he treats me badly,
shoos me away like a chicken.
I ignore his protests, bring him
plates of sweet carp, my nails dirty
and broken from digging black soil.

Finally, after two years of silence,
those side looks when he walks
into town, death a robe he can’t
completely shake—we speak.
I show him the garden fully bloomed,
blood scattered everywhere.

Dragonflies mate, jewel upon jewel,
sapphires and emeralds, tourmaline wings.
They hover above the feast of flowers.

We mourn Mary’s boy, each
in our own way. Aphrodite’s Island
brings out our best. Night after night,
I pour wine and break bread, serve
a man busy becoming a saint.

The table we eat from wobbles with
its crooked leg,
how we want our carpenter back
to steady it, like he steadies us.

His lessons make the stars shiver,
the trees long for transformation
into something better.

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About the author

Laurie Byro’s short stories and poetry draw on myth, fairytale and her experiences of foreign places in the years she worked as a travel agent. Published widely in literary journals such as Autumn Sky Poetry, Loch Raven Review, and Stirring, her work has been featured on The Guardian’s online workshop and has placed favorably in the Interboard Poetry Competitions. Laurie is head of circulation at a library in New Jersey where she facilitates a poetry circle.


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