Arc of an Incomplete Circle
Cups and curves are shapes I crave
from hand-knitted hats
to bicycle tires
toes of shoes, heels of socks
pot lids and potatoes
round rocks I hold in my palm.
My lonely mother, unheld herself
could not hold me
the way the shore hugs the lake
unknown to us, the magic of moonrise.
Straight line pokes me awake.
Her days, now numbered, on the square calendar grid.
Reaching out requires reaching
more deeply within.
What shape, after all, is forgiveness?
I hold grapes, olives
inside my mouth
speaking curved words to her
the way rounded hills speak to me
calling, calling me home.
About the Author
Beth Gallovic has been seen on hiking trails around Boulder Colorado, pulling out creased squares of paper from her backpack to scribble down lines of poetry. She marvels often at what an expansive force poetry has become in her life. Her poems appear in Pine Row, Quibble and Twenty Bellows.