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    Under the Broom Tree
    Under the Broom Tree
    Under the Broom Tree
    Ebook97 pages33 minutes

    Under the Broom Tree

    By Natalie Homer

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    About this ebook

    In the story of the prophet Elijah, he must flee his home, and, after an arduous journey, he arrives under a broom tree, where he prays for his own death. But in his sleep, he is touched by an angel who provides food and water. In this moment, the broom tree becomes a symbol for shelter in a barren landscape, a portent of hope and renewal. Drawing inspiration from this tale, Natalie Homer’s debut poetry collection is a trek through the wildernesses of the heart and of the natural world. Exploring the idea of divine providence, Homer finds seams of light opening between forlorn moments and locates, “Something to run a finger through, / something to shine in the ocher light.” Within these narrow spaces, Homer explores themes of longing, home, family, and self-worth amidst the wondrous backdrop of the American West and the Rust Belt, while integrating a rich mythology of narrative, image, and association. The broom tree, offering the capacity for shade and respite, becomes a source of connection and an inspiration for the collection. It is an invitation to sink deep into the earth and self and feel the roots entwine.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAutumn House Press
    Release dateSep 22, 2021
    ISBN9781637680001
    Under the Broom Tree

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      Book preview

      Under the Broom Tree - Natalie Homer

      I.

      INTERVIEW

      I’m the right candidate because I know

                   how some things stand in for others.

      Cotton batting for snow.  A small mirror for a frozen pond.

      There is a light bulb inside the church

                     that makes its plastic windows glow.

      All I’m saying                     is it must be nice

      to arrange the world on a mantel,

      then plug the lights in.

      A mistake:             passing the semi in the storm.

      Nocturne sounds pretty, whatever it is.

      An orange sky at night. My biggest weakness.

      In ten years, I see myself pointing out a cardinal on a power line.

      I’ll tell you about the time I solved the problem

      of what colors were meant by oyster, tulip, and sidecar.

      Or when I cut hundreds of paper snowflakes

                     to hang from the ceiling

                                    for someone else’s honeymoon.

      I can tell you a little more about myself.

      Like snow in April, I am a tired sort of fearless.

      A PLACE TO LIE DOWN

      If I were a bee, I might build my home

      in the gutted rind of a melon, or webbed between

      the sun-bleached bones of a lion’s rib cage.

      Other professional experience:

      noticing the weed flowering in the rain gutter

      and doing nothing about it.

      Eventually the water backs up,

      bubbles the paint in the dining room.

      It is not my paint,

                                      my rain,

                                                     or my dining room.

      Meanwhile, ants (ever practical) harvest cicada husks—

      little funeral processions across the driveway,

      and I read how butterflies

      put themselves to bed in the late afternoon

      which sounds so charming—

      their wings like eyelet sheets.

      What is home but a place to lie down? A place

      to wake up in, as the bats in the church eaves do,

      diving, unsynchronized, into the striated rainbow dusk.

      DIORAMA OF ANXIETY ATTACK

      In poems, dads are called Father

                     and they carry guns and shut doors.

      I had a dream about lambs and foxes

                     and wanting to save them both,

      walking in the line of fire

                     then not being able to move.

      Watching two people share a look

      carves a jack-o’-lantern in my chest.

      This week: another jealous thought removed, bandaged.

      Something’s always under construction.

      At the zoo, the polar bear is on vacation,

      the tunnel under her tank ruptured in blue light

      but water can be a spectacle, too.

      My eyeshadow is called caterpillar.

      My blush:              Red Queen.

      A bird builds her nest outside the forestry building.

      Within a week, it is removed.

      Tell your secret             is the prompt I’ve been assigned.

      The word wallows sounds to me like a love song

      a bird might sing in the sad evening.

      Don’t worry                          it is not the same bird

      and this is not the same river

      and you are not the same man.

      WILD

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