by Beverly Burch

It’s #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIMEvery Day‘s archives!

_________________________________________________________

She called after midnight from every sleepover,
begged to come home. Alarming as it was,
there was the luxury of settling her back into bed.

Until she wouldn’t be seen with us.
In time came a midnight call of the terrifying kind.
Hospital, alcohol. She sang in her room after fits

of weeping. Laid waste, ripped through, mended,
cured. Then it would start again. How did one body
contain the churn? Shifting mirrors,

colliding bits of colored glass, how did we?
She couldn’t wait to leave home, couldn’t bear to.
Once I stood at her door, long

metal spoon in my hand from cooking.
We both thought I would hurl it. Mercy descended.
O why so angry? Like my mother’s jagged bolt

of love, blazed by fear. Legacy
running the line of mothers and daughters:
does anything redeem us?

_________________________________________________________

Beverly Burch’s novel, What You Don’t Know, is the first book of a trilogy with interlinked characters. Part Two, No Guilty Secrets, will be out Spring 2027. She also has four poetry collections and two nonfiction books. Her work has won the John Ciardi Prize, a Lambda Literary Award, a Gival Poetry Prize and was a finalist for Audre Lorde Award. She lives in Oakland, CA. See beverlyburch.com or her Substack, Rethinking…(Almost) Everything.

by Beverly Burch

A fevered time. Waves of heat, dread flashes—
the female body’s sheet lightning.

I’m a remote star on the fade. I run the big fan
all night and God I love how its breezy fingers

ply the midnight swelter. Ferry off flushed days.
Its motor, an elegant crooning thing

turning darkness around, wings that furrow air.
By morning I’m bare beneath a blanket, knees bent,

hands together, a supplicant. The rhythmic
white whirr has cut the room adrift. Airborne.

O body, and your seemingly solid hold,
just a gossamer thread tethers me.

_________________________________________________________________

Beverly Burch’s third poetry collection, Latter Days of Eve, won the John Ciardi Poetry Prize and will appear in 2019. Her first, Sweet to Burn, won a Lambda Literary Award and the Gival Poetry Prize. Her second, How a Mirage Works, was a finalist for the Audre Lorde Award. Poetry and fiction appear in Denver Quarterly, New England Review, Willow Springs, Salamander, Tinderbox, Mudlark, and Poetry Northwest.

by Beverly Burch

She called after midnight from every sleepover,
begged to come home. Alarming as it was,
there was the luxury of settling her back into bed.

Until she wouldn’t be seen with us.
In time came a midnight call of the terrifying kind.
Hospital, alcohol. She sang in her room after fits

of weeping. Laid waste, ripped through, mended,
cured. Then it would start again. How did one body
contain the churn? Shifting mirrors,

colliding bits of colored glass, how did we?
She couldn’t wait to leave home, couldn’t bear to.
Once I stood at her door, long

metal spoon in my hand from cooking.
We both thought I would hurl it. Mercy descended.
O why so angry? Like my mother’s jagged bolt

of love, blazed by fear. Legacy
running the line of mothers and daughters:
does anything redeem us?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Beverly Burch’s third poetry collection, Latter Days of Eve, won the John Ciardi Poetry Prize and will appear in 2019. Her first, Sweet to Burn, won a Lambda Literary Award and the Gival Poetry Prize. Her second, How a Mirage Works, was a finalist for the Audre Lorde Award. Poetry and fiction appear in Denver Quarterly, New England Review, Willow Springs, Salamander, Tinderbox, Mudlark, and Poetry Northwest.