Rachel Blum

A Season of Messengers

    for Jane Lieberman Blum

It was a season of messengers,
men of barely disguised antiquity
driving modern cars,
pages arriving at night
blank but for names
or filled with song
or a letter from ancestors.
These are visitations,
a horse riding through a veil,
a wall that becomes mist.

Last night I saw you in the kitchen
you were crying you were
never more beautiful
in a play it was called
The Phoenix. The housecoat
is print flowers
and the following days
are marked trails.


​It is a lullaby.
Hush, my hand is warm on your hair.
The man will return in your dream
carrying a clipboard
bearing one word,
a name of one mind.
A point on a map,
the mind a drawer
full of constellations,
gods that by a different author
might have been flowers.

Hush the stars
are making no requests
tonight, they are dead
on their light’s arrival,
and have no condition
for singing.


​I am flying over the Colorado mountains.
On a porch made of driftwood
Dorothy rocks, elderly now.
Her hair is polished silver,
her friends are long infinite,
their missing pieces
years returned to them.

Outside the plane the world
is saturated with a light
that is audible
just out of range,
the twin sister
of the shell’s dark
and faraway earth song,
born in smooth pink
like a human baby.

Over the loudspeaker
voices braid together
to form a pilot,
while we are not landing.

Rachel Blum is a mother and reiki practitioner living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her poems have appeared or are upcoming in Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, Taos Journal of Poetry and Art, California Quarterly, and Confrontation.