Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

The Birth

by Ethel Mortenson Davis
To Sonja

I had no choice
because the earth and sky
threw up so much
poetry,

no choice
but to accept
the High Tea Ceremony.

That night,
and all the day before,
the earth was cold
with wind-driven snow,

inhuman nurses
in an old hospital,
the father barred
from my room.

Finally your time came
in the early morning
with dark skies and gray clouds

like the snow clouds
over the mesas this morning
that came
with wind-driven snow
and ice crystals.

But in a moment,
the sun had shone
in the threatening blackness,
and a great arc of rainbow
bowed across the western
and northern skies,

making it all worthwhile.

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Llama, a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Messenger

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The brightly-colored
towhee
brings webbing
to repair
my broken,
gray world.

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An Evening

by Ethel Mortenson Davis
For Sophia and Phoebe

Because this night is filled
with black-winged pelicans
coming in to land,
a sail being taken down,
a sliver of a moon
climbing above
the white birch trees,

and laugher from young girls
rising above the lapping waves,

no more can fit
into the evening.

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Living in a Moment

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I have dropped
most moments
onto the darkened sand,
except for a few
that I have held in my hand—
like a small child
holds your hand—
too tightly.

There I go, in secret,
into the darkened cloak
of the Great Purple Hairstreak,
getting lost among
the bright blue and yellow jewels
at the outer edge
of her wings.

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White Delirium

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Oh,
how the white delirium
has set in me.

Memories ache in my throat.
Sweetness stains my mouth.

I cannot forget
your unfamiliar eyes
that cried out to me,

the end of us!

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Faluga

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Written after hearing a Marine’s story
on British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) radio

The young marine tells his story.

In Falluja they struggled:
eye gouging
hair pulling
biting.
It would be a fight
to the finish.

The American noticed
the Iraqi was a very young man.
He could smell
the man’s breath,
taste his sweat,
feel the broken needle
in his shirt pocket.

The Marine wondered
why he had signed up.
He wasn’t prepared
to kill a man
with his bare hands.

Then the Iraqi bit
a chunk out of his hand.
The American reacted
with rage,
found his knife
in his pocket—
the same knife
he opened his ration bag with,

thrust it into the Iraqi
below his collar bone,
into the artery,
then pumped the man’s neck.

When life was almost out
of his eyes,
the Iraqi reached up
and gently touched
the American’s hair
and the side of his face.

originally published in I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico

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New Mexican Monsoon, a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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For You

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

you
smell like
wild snow
or
of trees
that hug
the earth.

turn your head.

you can hear
the moss
cling to the sides
of trees
and the sun
make your hair
the color
of red honey.

not there.

leave that hill

unnoticed.

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Mask: Sleeping Woman, a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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