Cover Photo: Poetry by Summer Edward by Summer Edward

Poetry by Summer Edward

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The poem below originally appeared in The Columbia Review, volume 89, issue 2, published in Spring 2008 by Columbia University. This work is the intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Visit the author's website at www.summeredward.com for more information.

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Cherubics


Angels painting angels with the same brush as humans. Painting angels.


One warns: Say nothing. Clutches golden arrow heads golden. Covering leaves for private, parts the leaves. Little man moin and other performing schemes of love.


A lover’s cheek. Rosy mouth sprouts a little kiss, something sweet, who puts the roses in someone’s cheek. A brown moth’s wing sprung from the shoulders, enrapturing shoulders.


Together birds of a feather perch and little green limbs folded. Golden heads of creatures wearing wings and thinking lovely things. 


Two shapely legs stretch and traverse. A rosy charm is pink compared to shadow standing by. Divine, hush-hush mystery of human babies side by side, bodies cast in a sit calm. One in shadow, a large pink dress. Take it as read.


Three are out for a stroll. Promenade of metonyms dressed in froufrou negligee, rustling silk, or cattle breasting hills. When one is an angel can one be three sheets to the wind. Arms crossed is a sign for love. Hands clasped, one has a prayer. One hand to stay, the other to give direction. A wind vain.


What’s holding them up. Some feathers, some wings. They both ripple in breezes. Whose finery is a cape, light to the wind. A spear arms petite limbs with poise and harm. A small matter of rouge gouge and impale a pink face. A child to crown it all. Peeking as usual.


A ring is round is a posie is a pocket. Blue-and-white decorative flesh wisps with folding waists in swaddling petticoats. What bundles joy comes in. Hands full of pink-and-white flowers. Of what immaterial softness folds to hold them.


Opens up a little leg, some plump, high exposure. Golden heads. Why is it orange center. Oranges and apples cannot be compared. Of angels in groves of academia.


Long fretted neck pale. Muted organ divine strains from little soundhole. Dear pear-shaped, voluptuous body with ribs glued together beneath rounded belly. Held in the lap and plucked and caressed.



Summer Edward is a Trinidadian-American writer.  Her work appears or is forthcoming in Bim: Arts for the 21st Century, The Missing Slate, Horn Book Magazine, Kweli Journal, Matatu: Journal for African Culture and Society, The Ekphrastic Review, Moko Magazine, sx salon, The Columbia Review, The Caribbean Writer, Obsidian: Literature in the African Diaspora, Duende, Negative Capability Press, Waxwing Literary Journal, Re-Markings and others. She is  a Small Axe Literary Prize shortlistee, a Pushcart Prize nominee, and was selected for the NGC Bocas Lit Fest’s New Talent Showcase.