In the Morning I Died

a poem by April Bulmer

In the Morning I Died
among apples and milkweed
and the ancestors did come:
ghost-spirits their boots
sweet with thyme and rue.
We kneeled in the pagan ground:
bones of buffalo and broken birds,
angels their wings damp
with blood and dew.

I muttered prayer there
beneath a pale bone-moon.
I spoke in tongue.

The river white as milk.
The stink of ointment,
medicine and root.
My heart an old wound:
a fruit in rind.
Blood a sweet juice.

All this on the other side
where my mouth
faded like a bloom,
though the ancestors
planted a new seed in me
and the husk and I grew.


April Bulmer has had six books of poetry published.  The most recent is called The Goddess Psalms (Serengeti Press).  “In the Morning I Died” is an excerpt from her new manuscript called Women of the Cloth.
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One response to “In the Morning I Died

  1. Lee Anne Johnston

    Really unique and startling images as usual April. Your poetry is amazing.

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