A Briar, a Bramble by Willie Lee Kinard III
- Apr 1
- 1 min read
When the spiderwort took over for Grandma’s roses, I found grace
to be a memory. A gift specific to one. I counted loss as nothing but reminders forgiveness pricks best in the present, regret grown fresh, a briar, a bramble each ungloved morning. Not enough
to love your blessings; you’ve got to care for them too. It was a nest of roses
I learned to tend, my soul a winged witness unprotected from inaction. What’s a bird to a startling flight from daydream?
What’s a daydream but flower-figuring fight? It’s not a dream the forest of roses
belongs to the ego now, its bruises long shed, its wrappings, its eight-legged blues a wildness I didn’t realize I backed out of seeing.
WILLIE LEE KINARD III (he/they) is the author of Orders of Service: A Fugue, winner of the 2022 Alice James Award (Alice James Books, 2023). A Black nonbinary editor, brand designer & musician forged in Newberry, South Carolina, his written work appears or is forthcoming in Obsidian, Southern Humanities Review, Poem-a-Day, Boston Review, The Rumpus, & elsewhere. The recipient of fellowships & support from The Watering Hole, Poetry Foundation & the Pittsburgh Foundation, they make trouble under @williekinardiii.
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