Mary Lou Buschi

Born inside a root.

Every periphery a turning.

Thoughts forked down

below the tilling,

below the possibility of light.

The invisible world composed

of branches.

I hold a child’s face,

trace the tender lines.

The idea of him set still in a high birch.

The idea of him set still in a high birch,

trace the tender lines,

I hold a child’s face.

Of branches,

the invisible world is composed,

below the possibility of light,

below the tilling,

thoughts forked down.

Every periphery a turning,

born inside a root.

Mary Lou Buschi lives in Larchmont, New York. Her poems have appeared or are appearing in Willow Springs, The Laurel Review, Cream City Review, The Collagist, Pank, Tar River Poetry, RHINO, among others. She earned an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College Masters Program for Writers. Mary Lou is a special education teacher in the Bronx.

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