MAURA PELLETTIERI

(Song of Songs)

March 2025

Poetry

A silence entered me; I was not alone.

I wanted to eat of a book, the book mine
but not to own, I watched you, your
paws shredded in the green grass below me (my rock), clover,
two yellow flowers crushed beside,
(me) on the cement.

A Crow arrives without song, loud in body,
no notes.
I cloud and stack myself tall above the hill
to remind you
who I am. It rains. I am the rain.
I cannot go in.

I: reintroduce myself to you
as a bright pale pink blossom; we know
each other well.

Anciently, I am the maiden of Shir Ha’Sharim and
you are Solomon. Or you are her beloved and I,
the psalmist king.
Presently,
I do not carry a canvas
and you will know when you are home.

In Yerushalayim, I watch the meaning of fire and water change
as I dance.

You watch me in the Mojave.
Your thirst not slaked but nearly.
Your thighs touch my blood.

I hope that when you know that you are home,
it will be because
you see me. When you see me,
paint spills,
the juice of pomegranates.

✳

Maura is a writer and artist. Her writing has been published in The Kenyon Review, Conjunctions, On the Seawall, Fairy Tale Review, Denver Quarterly, The Literary Review, and elsewhere. Maura received her MFA in Writing from Washington University in St. Louis. She is based in Northern California.

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