Poems
by ClairE Helakoski
Ouroboros
My son might have something terrible
where his body attacks itself, circles around
and bites, too many white blood cells.
And if he does, our lives might be hospitals and infections.
And if he does, I gave it to him from my genes,
a poison I grew inside of him as he grew inside of me.
I am living in a box with no windows or air holes,
it’s dark and I am afraid, I can’t breathe,
but I am most afraid of the box being lifted,
of seeing a future where my son is sick,
of the overbright light of a situation I created,
birthed into being. Of the truth that my son might die
just because of the strands I passed down, the helix roots
of something evil, and perhaps this is Eve’s bite
of the apple because mothers give life to their children
and something sinful might be living inside,
a snake of DNA and we have given it,
we have given it to all of humanity,
a twisting darkness that will go on and on and on.
I Depend On Things Like
A button re-sewn—red thread on a navy shirt,
How her hands wind the string and press the tea bag
against the spoon. A heart-shaped birthmark
right at the crease of the upper thigh.
Scattered footprints of a joyful dog in snow.
A bird that flutters against my boots,
flashing its yellow-tinted wings.
Beaded mist against red spring branches.
Things like these lift me
on days of wear and weariness.
Despite the dirty dishes, skinned knees,
bucked bedtimes, crusted playdough.
Amidst the bombs and carnage,
people starving, drowning, dead,
still there exist toddlers' silken pigtails,
the exuberance of forsythia in spring,
and if ever things like these don’t lift my lips,
I will pick up a stone and peer beneath,
or throw it, just to hear the sound,
or pocket it: ballast, to keep me standing.
Forest Hymn
Walking over rib bones
of a railroad skeleton.
The forest a cathedral
resplendent as stained glass.
A reverence, a silence
more lovely than bells.
Looming black and chrome,
specter of an ancient car
amidst trees and bark,
pure as virgins. Lacework
of canopy, embroidered leaves
along the path. We bow our heads
under crossed branches. Spirits of
birch sing a chorus. I step along
crosstie vertebrae made verdant,
a history reshaped and rooted
in soil. Burial mounds of industry
haunt this hallowed hush.
Ghosts are holy here, in the forest
everything has an afterlife.
​​​​​​BIO
Claire Helakoski lives in Hancock, Michigan, and teaches writing classes along with acting as Assistant Writing Center Director at Michigan Technological University. Claire has an MFA in Creative Writing and a BA in Creative Writing and French Linguistics. Her poetry has recently appeared in In Parentheses. She lives with her husband, two children, and a golden doodle.