How Amytis Spends Her Days
Counting quinceÂ
before they ripen. Weaving
among the young willows, lissome
and already pouring
themselves over. Thumbing the cottoned clumps
of licorice, each plentied stem endeavoring
away. Murmuring for her own ears
the once-exotic: cedar, cypress, myrrh,Â
ash. Babylon’s exquisite exiles
in every tiered terrace. This is a solace
garden, groomed green as her homeland. Held closeÂ
by the city of her queeningÂ
held by moat and doubled walls. WorkÂ
of the constructor king who knows not
weariness. This is how she spends her days: bearing
the fig so to also cradleÂ
its wasp. Palming the olivesÂ
before brine steals their bitter. FollowingÂ
the water as it slips toward the grapevines. Water
has no home. The vines want
only to ascend. Of tree or trellis,
they’ll make a tower.
Some grapes ache
with abundance. Split their own skins.
Abbie Kiefer's work is forthcoming or has appeared in Boulevard, The Cincinnati Review, Copper Nickel, Ploughshares, RHINO, The Southern Review, and other places. She has twice been a semifinalist for the 92Y Discovery Prize and volunteers as a reader for The Adroit Journal. Find her online at abbiekieferpoet.com.