Spring/Fall 2020

Violence of Lush

By Elisabeth von Uhl

At the end of my suffering is a fissure in the soil.
It widens as the ground regenerates. Rot coming around

to birth. Faith borne of cycles; seasons shed and memory
recoils. The dandelions burst through—readying for spring

with curves circling tips that split soil. Their fight
and sever is beyond the soft, past the green.

Stems then thicken—force down roots rupturing the dirt.
Leaves cleave against pure shade and scrapes of sun. It

is the scarring over of the seasons. Everyone envies flora’s flawed mercy,
cracked like hatched eggs on the banks of a rising river.

The anxious magnolia flowers have bloomed over this ripened
world. Winter has been cleared—suffering and sorrow

and leftover language drowned out by spring rains. Rust-colored
worms emerge: meaty and charged. It is the filling of emptiness.

How brutal the reversing of withering? How ravaging
the rifts erupt among blades of grass? Winter is the quiet, sturdy bone.

Spring is the impatient, savage packing on of flesh.

Bibles in rearview window


After Henry, the seven-year-old boy, drowned
                    in the Mississippi
          behind our house, his father, slight and slow,

dismantled his handgun into pieces like chunks of black
                    day-old licorice
          from the corner store dispersed under dirt.

Years later, new owners of his house, two doors down from ours,
                    found metal while cultivating
          the sandy soil piecemeal hoping to grow cosmos,

roses, and lavender with bright petals
                    scorched by
          the same sun that crest rivers,

flat and creamy with mud. Now, this same sun
                    thickens reflections
          in the rear window of a neighbor’s

cherry red Honda Civic as the bibles, those cues
                    taken by magicians, rot.


And that slick, organized violence of the river
                    is largely implicit
          in those sun-bleached, male-named pages.

Along with shame and its smooth, open stream
                    swirled around Henry, both gasping.
          The Bible’s covers now cracked and warped—

skeletons unhinged. And the heavy air
                    of the car’s interior is stifling.
          The car’s lights are now red and rusty:

old pain radiates, throbs, diverges,
                    yet a parent’s forgiveness
          is the sleight of a magician’s hand

gestured towards a boy-sized, casket-like box; his toothy,
                    tart smile recedes, he counts
          “one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three…”

as the trick splinters minds leaving a pile of bones
                    and hearts as small as cherry apples.
          This equation of the body: its addends

of hair, blood, teeth, and soul unequal
                    in biblical proportions.
          All of them lies scattered in the river’s infinite wake.

Elisabeth von Uhl

Elisabeth von Uhl has earned an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College along with scholarships to the Prague Summer Writer’s Conference, Greenwich Village Writer’s Workshop, and the Postgraduate Writer’s Conference. Her work has been published in Lunch TicketThe Cortland ReviewSHIFTCream City Review, and other journals. Her chapbook, Ocean Sea, which was a semi-finalist in the Black Lawrence Press Chapbook Contest, has been published by Finishing Line Press.

Spring/Fall 2020