“On the Eve of a Daughter’s Fortieth Birthday” by Laurie Klein
Little fist of a plum
on the chipped yellow plate,
your heft—mottled
violet, tinge of blue—defines
awkward: Smooth skin
girdles the bloom of pulp.
Youth is a membrane,
poised to tear,
spill seed. Little plum,
sealed tight, were you a door
hinged to my fieldstone wall,
where would I open?
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Laurie Klein’s Artist Statement:
Laurie Klein authored Where the Sky Opens, a Partial Cosmography and Bodies of
Water, Bodies of Flesh. Her work has appeared in Ascent, Barrow Street, Books &
Culture, MAR, The Potomac Review, The Southern Review and other publications. A
past winner of the Thomas Merton Prize for Poetry of the Sacred, she co-founded
Rock & Sling with two sister-poets to fill a perceived gap in the litmag market. She
writes from a crammed-to-the-gills office that helps her breathe and (mostly) knows
what’s in each pile.
