The way a frenzied starling / builds her nest in May, / one clutch of twigs / at a time.

BottledText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedLight slow as honeyin its antique shell, rubber stopperlazy at the end, snarled curlof the lip ring silverround glass—yes, glass, but thick,the kind that keeps you guessing,stretching for the other side.The way a frenzied starlingbuilds her nest in May,one clutch of twigsat a time. The light unclaimedthrough my delay, seeping inas if from nowhere, stilted,clotted as in the waterin the white-shelled tank I sawone inverted summer dayin Melbourne, where a squid layslumped in a cornerlike a pile of unwashed laundry,her eye a steady accusationbefore the rounded windowthat glimpsed our own grey-glimmer world. Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedPraying for RainText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI didn’t want to post the poemso I sent it to my lover, who at leastwas safe, over in the green land.Even this felt like a risk. For onceI wasn’t worried about the writing—already there were bad poemssprouting in my feed, and mostlyI was thankful for them. I tweeteda good one by someone else,an older piece not about the firesinhaling the sinking forests,the poet’s voice so wet and coolon the recording that accompaniedher soft seeds of text. This seemedsafe enough—after all, she wroteof a whole other continent. Tiredof wilting, I watered the plantsbecause they needed it, fed the dogbecause she needed it, walked herwith a KN95 over my breath(on the asphalt she vomitedhaze-streaked sunshine), madescrambled eggs again, then checkedthe weather on my phonebecause this was what I needed,the promise of rain. I toldthe internet I was praying for rain,but wouldn’t share that poemI tried to shape into a prayer—the combination felt botha sacrilege and dangerous. I couldn’tstop thinking about the waterbombers sent from Newfoundland,how big they were, how muchthey carried, and how littlethey could do. The worstblasphemy, this ingratitudefor something infinitely more usefulthan poetry. Still rainseemed like the only hope,the way it might charge the gapsleft by humans, machines, and words.I had my first hot flashin a heat wave, the itch in my breastcoming from both withinand out of me, Googledpatron saint of rainand found Isidore the Farmer, a Spaniardwho went to mass before workbut met God only in the fields—a cerulean pattering through the wheat,the slate roar of ahistoric relief.Isidore also busied himselfputtering about with food and animals—maybe he was more worried than faithful,and we just remember him different.Saints can do so much for the livingwithout changing a thing. When Iget worried, I pray to God, too.I promised this was not a prayer.I wonder what my ancestorsdid when they needed rainon those farms in Cape Breton,France, and Scotland, imaginingrites passed down then lostlike silvery seeds slippingthrough the invisible cracksin my hands, unable to catchbut cupping still, fingers permittingthe orange glow of light,losing those falling treasures,while below, sudden depressionslike gradually opening mouthsin the grey, dry soil.

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Buy Votive

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Votive by Annick MacAskillGaspereau Press, 2024

From the Publisher

Votive considers various forms of devotion and our often fraught attempts to respond to “our confusion, our curiosity.” These are poems concerned with the way we use stories, old and new, to connect our experiences, and the way we persist in our quest for love, hope and meaning when language falters —“What we couldn’t say we found in the skies.” MacAskill’s great gift resides in her facility for coaxing things evasive and intuitive into crisp form and language, in voicing what “so quickly I /knew and knew and knew.”

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