Deborah Gerrish

DEBORAH GERRISH is an award-winning poet and the author of three books of poetry, Indeed Jasmine (Resource Publications, 2022), Light in Light (Resource Publications, 2017), The Language of Paisley (Xlibris, 2012), and chapbook, The Language of Rain (2008). Her poem, “A Precis on the Stuff We Breathe” was a finalist in the The Comstock Review, Muriel Craft Bailey Poetry Contest, 2024. Her poem, “Tulip Farm,” is featured as a poetry film in Moving Words, 2023. She earned an EDD from Rutgers University, received the Edward Fry Fellowship for scholarship research in the poetry process, holds an MFA in Poetry from Drew University, taught English for thirty-eight years in NJ public schools, and teaches poetry workshops in the FILL program at Fairleigh Dickinson University. 

The Secret

Searching for something

the house keys an earring

a post-it a pen

The chestnut sided

warbler in the willow—

the wood thrush twang

The disappearing tail

of the red fox

into the woods

I’m the teeny ant

at the window climbing

to what I think is sky

At the beach I seek

sunlight inside

the granite clouds

The needle fish

the sheephead

the bait thief

I study the wind

invisible and even

just today

from here

at my desk

I’m on the dock

still searching

a portal

for something

for something

in the secret of the sea

Waiting for a Miracle in the ER at the Animal Hospital

The story begins in the middle of the story—

if you want to know about the human condition,

enter through the doors of the animal hospital and

wait there with your beloved papillion in the waiting room.

Then glance at the faces of the pet owners.

Closely study their expressions—the sky is still blue

but they’re overwrought with fear. In a glass-enclosed

room, a woman’s cheeks burn red, her face

twitches while her Doberman pup, wrapped

in Burberry, jumps and tail-wags. Animals know.

The Maltipoo moans from the hallway. Kissed by its owner,

the thin bengal is put back into the carrier as a gemstone

placed in its velvet case. I love you Percy. You’re my best boy, Polar.

The French bulldog whimpers. The man in an orange sweater

comes unglued when the nurse leaves him. There are a thousand

ways to surrender to pain. He stares out tall windows. I dream

I fly away on a gold leaf and let the guilt go.

Climate Anxiety

I took down the thistle food, the hummingbird syrup.

Took down the feeders, the suet nectar. I scraped

the stale bark butter from the old maple tree. Black bear,

you have no home here. I paused—took in the apple

greenery, took in the light, the clear blue of sky. Tired

of no birds in sight. I purchased cellophane packages

of peanuts in shells. Tested one, then two—

devoured handfuls of shells non-stop.

There’s a halal in my yard. Two squirrels

circle each other. I flash sprays of birdseed from

the bucket. Bands of jays arrive, a charm of finches,

a chime of wrens. A woodpecker samples fresh

bark butter before it trails down the trunk of the tree.

I experiment with climate anxiety. In the stone bath,

an oriole suds its bright feathers framed in black,

nuthatches hitch to trees. The red mangy fox peaks out,

as curious as I. Peanuts everywhere, a storehouse

everywhere. It’s good for your health, watching birds.