Mary Christine Delea

Unborn


On this night, I can lead you there:
bone and leaves, swamp and the cry
of wild things surrounding us.

This is my world, the walls
of clementine, the sheer light,
the unmistakable smells

levitating from the grasses.
How dark everything is,
like a Flemish painting,

the oils still fresh, the neighbors
still gossiping. Let me un-
button my blouse.

We can crouch along the way,
hugging the stream, which flows
as if Greek, the chill

of ice water, of things we try
to forget. No one asks questions
in backwater places like

this. The graves are waiting
to float after heavy rain.
But you and I are different.

I made sure you’d never be
found—a fall down the stairs,
a coat hanger. What was left

drowned. I’ll quicken our pace,
but we’ll never get where
we are going. I keep

living, milkless, and you—
in my mind, in the stench—
will always be unborn.

Mary Christine Delea grew up on Long Island, attended school in Ohio, West Virginia, Mississippi, and North Dakota, and now live in Oregon. Delea is a former university professor and has worked as an AmeriCorps VISTA, an improv performer, a social worker, and a retail manager. Recent publications include an interview with another poet for The Rumpus, as well as poetry in The Hollins Critic, The Comstock Review, Heron Tree, 3Elements, and The Remington Review. Delea has three chapbooks and one full-length book of poetry published by different presses.