Bethany Reid
Marry the winter fields.
Marry the mountains that stand
at the horizon’s lip, their white heads
on fire. Marry the row of cedars
that stand as if between you
and eternity. Marry the noise
of passing traffic, the plastic bag
blowing across the fields, the Doppler call
of a passing train. Marry the mica
that glitters in the gravel. Marry the gravel,
its artfulness and its artlessness.
Marry the dormant bulbs of daffodils,
composting daisies, mushrooms
that flower in the damp and dark.
Marry the flowing and the following of it,
the big leaf maple naked of green,
the bird’s nest folded in bare limbs,
bird and bird’s absence.
Marry moles and mealy bugs.
Marry the cold earth.
Marry the secret arcs and grottoes
of your own body, the hush,
the unspoken, the unfeigned.
Marry yourself to the world,
to her justice and injustice,
her hunger and flaws and wounds,
her astonished and astonished beauties,
her gaps, her gasping, her disheveled shopping cart
shamble. Her stumble. Marry the stench
and the perfume. Marry without
windows, without doorsills,
without reservation, without ministers
or maps, without a license. Marry
out of your own abundance
and out of whatever poverty you possess.
Marry out of your wisdom and your ignorance.
Marry it. Marry it again.
Bethany Reid
Bethany Reid's poetry books include Sparrow, which won the 2012 Gell Poetry Prize (Big Pencil Press 2012), Body My House (Gold Fish Press, 2018), and The Thing with Feathers, which was published as part of Triple No. 10 (Ravenna Press (2020). She and her husband live in Edmonds, Washington, near their three grown daughters. She blogs at bethanyareid.com.