Self-Portrait with Sediment - Melody Wilson

I keep a glass of water
            on my desk, never
drink enough. I think
            about feathers,
 how they too have a spine,
            about the lines
that hold me together ‒ wires
            linking my mind
and my eyes, the trestle that
            stretches across me,
hip to hip. So much flows through,
            three born, one not, still
counted, never capitalized. Part
            of the portfolio, all of it.
I’m rough terrain, collision
            of gristle and cashmere ‒
finite element poised on the innermost
            leaf of a fiddlehead fern.
Maybe I will open to summer, maybe
            it will be blue.

Melody Wilson lives and teaches writing in Oregon. After some poetry success in college, she tried other creative outlets, including weaving, stained glass, and quilting.  She learned so many crafts that her husband teased that she had to limit her interests to ten. She even dabbled in horses. Then, after twenty years of teaching, she remembered poetry. Now she writes in a house filled with dusty weaving looms, rusty sewing machines, and enough yarn to start an Etsy shop. She doesn’t care. She reads her poetry aloud to her three dogs and the members of her bi-coastal poetry group Zalon, which is a gift of pandemic life. Her recent work can be read in Quartet and Cirque.  Upcoming work will be in Whale Road Review and Tar River Poetry.