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This poem is taken from PN Review 263, Volume 48 Number 3, January - February 2022.

He Rises and other poems Amy Crutchfield
Yew

When I think of yew,
I think of those berries
the colour of a glacé cherry
or apples dipped in candy.
The colour of the knave
of hearts who takes the trick,
the colour of bets we placed, and the losses
gamblers chase.

The colour of a woman’s lips in rouge absolu.
They say we paint our mouths this way
to make them look more like
the box for a defibrillator. Stop me
and start me up again.

The colour of a nosebleed on tissue
or exsanguination, which is red
but also blue. The colour of a heart on fire
like the one Augustine holds high
...


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