Eve From Above

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Hit play below to hear Kate Partridge read her poem “Eve from Above” and scroll down for the full text. “Eve From Above is featured in MQR’s Summer 2020 issue.

Eve From Above

Enter dipping close
to the mountains, the sheep bouldering
            their positions along
the ridge. As long 

as you can feel the air
pressing against the mere

            glass and engine rattle,
the mountains must be
on one side, the valley on the other.

Or else the image dies.
Or else the brush and purple flowers
            draw higher

What does it mean to be patient?
Even the needles clinging on in
             the breeze will let
go. Or the plant which, once
                         tread, takes one
hundred years to
            reproduce its
head. A woman walks
            the tree

line, tracing it with her body, and down
             to the rocky
             bed of fish
in spread formation, and back again

to the flowers purpled
            by closeness
to the sun. The hillside does not end,
always pushing the outside

              world up and down
              on its shoulders.
Connecting, again, earth and sky.

I guess this is the time when everyone arrives.

The flowers grow as if they cannot
see themselves. The fish

              after an origin
that is not seeking them.
You, watching, are like the paws

reaching at them from above,
muffled by the evening river’s roll;

you, watching, are like
             the rocks shaken loose
             from their beds,
a swifter rain. A face above, just
outlining its own moon.
        Braided river pulled strand
by strand from its riverbank

husk. When the woman
            bends into a drink of water
from the stream, the mosquitos fill

her mouth. She cannot let them out.
             She will.