Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

Chickens

by Ethel Mortenson Davis after a conversation with Rita Hawes

Bought one of those
genetically modified chickens
(the one with the big breasts)
home,

but she just sat there
in a clump
in the middle
of the yard–
didn’t get up
and peck and
scratch around

because her skinny
little legs couldn’t
lift her big chest
off the ground.

But that’s okay,
because a few weeks
in those little wire cages,
voila!
Big chicken breasts.

Millions of little cages whose
chickens are ripe
for picking.

My how we love our big breasts!

copyright 2010 I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico

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Absence

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

What else could
I do today?
What else but work the soil?

Work the soil
around the corn and beans,
the green squash.

The beans are vining,
feeling for the corn’s torso.

The corn is up
to my shoulders
and beginning to tassel out.

The afternoon clouds
have brought
a hard male rain
in the hottest
and driest year
we remember.

What else could we do
but work the soil?

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Backlight

a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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The Leaving

a pastel and poem, in memoriam, by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The Poet’s Walk

The Mourning Cloaks 1
accompanied us
along our walk.

“They said,
“He loved and
not to be afraid.” 2

“That was the sum
of your being,
your purpose,
wasn’t it?

“Do you remember
when you told us,

‘Go take
the Poet’s Walk along
the Hudson River.
It’s a place I like
to go?”

So today we walk
The Poet’s Walk,
joined by the
Mourning Cloaks
to say our last goodbye.

Note: 1 Mourning Cloaks are butterflies.
2 This was Kevin’s last message, written after he could not speak. The full message was, “Kevin loves and not to be afraid.” Kevin passed away 2 years ago from today.

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Fancy Dancer

a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Memory

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

A memory
of rain
in a night
when
the wind filled
and spread the sky

a
rain
upon us
and
through us,

on sounds
little known

as feet
of deer,

a rain
falling
between us,

upon
two voices
almost heard
above
the wind.

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Swallow

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

All the holy books
of the world
could fit on the tip
of a swallow’s wing
as she dips and sways,
diving for flying
insects.

All the wisdom of mankind
could balance on her
unpretentious head
as she cares for
her young
under the eves
of our house,
eyes showing no deception,
fighting off the blackness
that sits all around her.

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Hummingbirds at Sunrise

photographs by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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The Leaving

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I will sneak
up on you
like I do
on a wild animal,
just to get
a far away glimpse.

I will give you
time to get close,
or run away,
if you need to.

Last night
in my telling dream,
you came to me
to shake my hand,
and then we did
a secret hand shake,
and you broke apart
into a million pieces.

Here, touch
my soul
one last time
before you leave.

copyright, White Ermine Across Her Shoulders, 2011

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Evening in Continental Divide

a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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