Cheryl A Van Beek’s most recent poem to appear here was Void (December 2013).

Lapse
Cheryl A Van Beek

She used to lie awake at night
imagining the names of her children
and what they’d look like.
Never did have any.

From one end of her porch, the shrub never looks that tall.
But whenever she gets close, to trim its peak,
it’s just out of reach–
growing, poking in directions that scratch her,
so she fixes her gaze on its center instead.

Builds lists like fire ant hills,
piles of plans
that sting when she steps on them.

Collects information, builds a nest with its threads.
Reads that cigar plants
attract more hummingbirds than hibiscus.
But when a ruby-throated hummer
nectars at the bottlebrush above her,
head hovering over her laptop,
she misses it.

Spends all her time with questions.
Eyes shuffle across webpages
like cards in a deck
fingers tap at answers
like woodpeckers at a hollow tree.