The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2020

The Word for Apricot Barbara Daniels My heart is a donkey bearing its bundles of sticks. It understands what it can’t name: wound in the throat, constricted chest. Gaps open, the word for apricot, the word for flame. In the space between sleep and dream a quiet chorus sings, voice with voice. A hand offers red and blue ribbons, silver coins. A tenor sings, melismas blossoming, white peonies forms of joy. The Meadow 37