A poem by Pamela Hill Epps


Tenderly you scrape the seeds
from the belly of the delicata squash.
I have finally found something that my
stomach does not turn against.

For over a year you have watched me 
from your citadel of silence
disappear pound by pound.
I have stopped reaching for you.

Instead in the evenings
I walk down to the skinny maple
with half naked branches
and wrap my arms around
its smooth trunk imagining my mother
as I kiss the bark goodnight.

Your hands press the possibility of little
Delicatas into rich black soil.
You will water them.
Peer into their dark home.

Coax what is dormant.
Nourish what is hard.
Never once consider love’s limits.
The ending of things.

About the Author:

Pamela Hill Epps’ work has most recently appeared in  the anthology, 101 Jewish Poems For The Third Millennium (Ashland Poetry Press)  as well as in other literary publications such as Heartwood Literary Magazine, The Closed Eye Open, The Sandhill Review, Poetica, and Wild Violet. She works as a psychologist and likes to find herself writing poems and playing music in Tampa, Fl. She spends a great deal of time looking out at the river.

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