Wendy Wisner

Mom, this morning on my walk, a tree I couldn’t identify
had already shed its leaves, but a lone white flower 
lit its branches. So odd, I thought. In a different autumn, 
you would have said the flower represented hope
or determination. You always thought in metaphors 
and taught me to do the same. But when I saw that flower, 
my mind blanked. It was as though the planet had gone dark 
without you. I don’t mean literal darkness.
I mean the idea of nothing. The nothing that existed 
before I did. Under your skin, I was a clutch 
of pearls. A change purse swinging beside your hip bone 
as you walked down the block—so young then: 
cropped black hair, beaming smile. I was nothing. 
Then I was something. Inside your dazzling body, I opened.

Wendy Wisner is the author of three books of poems, most recently The New Life (Cornerstone Press/University of Wisconsin Stevens-Point). Her essays and poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Spoon River Review, The Washington Post, Lilith Magazine, and elsewhere.