A Song in the Kayak of Mourning & A Day in the Woods | by Ashley Sapp

A SONG IN THE KAYAK OF MOURNING

You point out the northern parula’s trill 
       to me as we cut through the water, 
birthed in the sunlight: the rising song 
       with the final sharp note. The yellow warbler 
not yet tentative of us. This is the harmony 
       I will remember when I am gone –
certain, I am, as I watch colors flick through, 
      a discovery of movement. Speak to me of birds, 
and I will commit their voices to memory 
       because you loved them. We brush hands 
as we pass, pathways carved in our fluid wake – 
       fringed, temporary. Our reflections stir 
beneath, broken. Do not grieve. My body is caught 
       alive, but there are hawk feathers in the water. 
Your children will sprout wings from their spines, 
       a tribute to invincible youth. What we find here 
will become home in the oaks. You point to me and 
       the trill is quiet. The final note, a question.

A DAY IN THE WOODS

Witness how we plant young trees 
with dibble bars, pressing and pulling, 
creating a home like a god in the dirt. 
When you removed your hat 
to wipe your face, a glistening veneer 
beneath the sun, it was easy then to say, 
I love you. I was moved by your power, 
bending and pushing, and I, the tiny being, 
recalled how hard you work inside me, too. 
Moved, I say, against you and with you. 
Witness how we plant ourselves firmly, 
a prayer. When you straighten to observe 
your work, we can see the future of it, 
a hundred years of youth before us. 
How like god. When you turn to me, 
it is easy to say, use me, because I 
am built to be your sanctuary. 
Witness how you kneel, saying my name 
as only you can, and your filthy hands 
find me in the bright light, counting 
every freckle like a rosary bead leading 
to the cross between my breasts. 
Listening to how my body speaks. 
We are but two godlets in the woods, 
a refuge. I understand now why we 
keep planting - settling for what is 
difficult, yearning for what is ours.