Brigit Truex

Born and raised in Washington DC, Brigit Truex is of mixed heritage, including Abenaki/Cree and Irish. A love of language led her to the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, where she first began to explore writing poetry. She has since found communities of writers (or started them herself) while living in Massachusetts, Maryland, and California. The newest group, Red Fox Underground, meets weekly and hosts monthly readings in El Dorado Hills. Brigit has been published in such journals as Atlanta Review, Folio, Manzanita, PDQ, Tiger’s Eye, Rattlesnake Review, and Drumvoices Review. Her work is also in anthologies, including Sacramento: 100 Poems; Nantucket; and Washing the Color of Water Golden. In addition to A Counterpane Without, Brigit has three previous collections of poetry: Satuit Seasons, Of A Feather, and Leaf by Leaf.



Brigit Truex Poems


There are old men in the basement
standing ankle-deep in the
compacted soil, their thick necks
bent, ropey arms outstretched
to each other in the dim, filtered light.
They hold up the ceiling, patiently.
Aged, four-square, their rough exteriors
planed off.

        Do they remember the feel
        of first light on their topmost
        leaves? Do they recall
        the incorrigible wind
        tugging their branches,
        mocking their rootedness?

Occupied with my own
tasks, I stride above them like a
high-wire act, balanced on their
shoulders, their clasped wrists.
I have my own memories.

        Sometimes at night,
        they sigh, shift their weight.
        Time is different in the dark.


The Rain Crow

There is an hour left till dawn
but the rain crow is already about his business,
drumming the walls with wet artillery,
savaging the leafless limbs in a broken barrage.

The rain crow is already about hs business.
There will be no fire this time,
savaging the leafless limbs in a broken barrage
of flames the color of dawn, fingers of smoke.

There will be no fire this time.
What remains are dank embers, nothing
of flames the color of dawn, fingers of smoke.
How beautiful you were.

What remains now are dank embers, nothing
drumming the walls with wet artillery.
How beautiful you were with stars in your hair
in the hour left till dawn.







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