Double Helix by Barri Armitage

DOUBLE HELIX

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“These are poems of survival, even of celebration, in the face of irredeemable loss.”

— Susan Ludvigson, Poet and professor

“I love the courage of these poems, the surprising risks, the energy and skills of a poet who makes a stranger feel that the lovely, painful world of these poems is home. Spun from unbearable loss, the book weaves a story of human abundance--a family blessed with so much, deeply in love, with so much to lose...These poems give me more than I expect from any book.”

— Walter McDonald, Poet and professor

Poetry Excerpts from Double Helix

1 Poetry Reading - The Gardner 01:13

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THE GARDENER

knows his trade, knows how to choose
the thickest stems from stringers, knows
the right reasons for pruning down to ugly stubs
poking up six inches from the ground. He knows
the stalks will stand all night as if remembering
over and over the feel of the saw
as each cut brought sap to the surface,
will stand in the cold night not cold enough
for frost, as if trying to remember
the new bloom, shape that will soften,
juice that will thicken--the good enough
reasons for the mass of dead brush whirling
and writhing at the edge of the dream.
He knows roots will reach into well-worked soil
and returns before dawn to smooth again
the sealer, clear and sticky, on the wounds.

- Barri Armitage

FALL RITUAL
Even the marigolds on my window sill
speed on to seed, showing it's time
to shorten the path to earth.
You always stay at twenty-two,
you, the expert at shortcuts:
three cakes in one bowl,
four quilt squares, or eight, at a time.
Your bike, faster than cars at rush hour,
seemed almost welded to you,
sped you along the night's straight edge,
armlight blinking gold,
until a Chevy cut you short.

Outside, I soften a groove in the clay.
Maroon and gold petals, dry as confetti,
slip away at the slightest touch.
I wriggle the seeds apart and
push them into a common bed.
Reluctant to cover up,

I savor the feel of earth,
then sprinkle it, pack it like snow.
Bone of my bone, you were packed in me,
grew from meat I chewed, from milk I drank--
seed buried in seed
you carried to the ground.
When snow's patches have melted
and the flurry of birds returns
like the rush of rain,
I will kneel at this earth's pocket
as flesh of the springtime's flesh
begins to crown.

- Barri Armitage

DOUBLE HELIX, © 1993, Washington Writers' Publishing House
First published: POETRY, Sept. 1986
Reprinted in OUT OF SEASON, 1993, The Amagansett Press
Reprinted in CABIN FEVER, 2003, The Words Works

Section 3 of the title poem, “Double Helix”
...the fall air droops
with the distant rumble of rain, drenches us
in the near scent of peaches--still good--
as men harvest bushels before the trees
give back their leaves. Along the path,
we stoop to dandelion fluff, blow seeds
and laugh as in the old photos.
I arrange bittersweet to add color
to the house, pot amaryllis for the winter.
Our shelves bulge with sweaters and books
as gift options narrow like arteries,
but sometimes you bring me perfume
from flowers picked in their prime,
and tonight I'll make you
honeycake that keeps a week.
When the widow shared her food
with Elijah, it lasted through the drought--
lately it seems, the more I bake,
the more the oil rises in the jar.

- Barri Armitage