BROTHERS IN WINTER

My uncle fought a bear the day my father 
died. He stepped out of his front door, saw 
the bear hurdling through the tree line while 
we were telling him it’s okay to go.  He went 
out in his pajamas, no shoes, to scare it away
from the chickens, out of the yard. My father
lay still as snowfall. His hands twitched and 
we told him it was alright. The bear reared up
and my uncle made himself large, shouted 
until the sound split the trees. Until the bear
turned to run. I think about it often; how we
resist leaving. How we must be told to turn
back. My uncle stood barefoot on his porch, 
steam rising on his breath. They said he didn’t 
feel a thing. I imagine the bear still moving 
through those trees, carrying the sound of 
his shout, the echo of our small voices crying 
in the still of morning. Two brothers answer 
each other across miles and miles of winter. 

HEAVEN OF GLASS

This is how it works, he says, 
and at her feet he stretches 
small shards of heaven, rough, 
sharp edges caked in blood, 
cut skin from each set of red
footprints that have been urged 

across them. Walk, he says, 
and he is the danger she knows 
so she moves and the thin skin 
at her sole splits newly open
again, and again, and again she
keeps her eyes on his, wants 

his, she keeps her cries quiet, 
waits for scar tissue to rise up thick.  

SALT SERMON

This is the body when it bends in prayer to the sea.

The mouth of salt and mercy opens, and every word 
stings. Faith tastes like blood dried under the tongue,
like waves retreating from a wound. Prayer is another 
form of thirst, a body asking to be filled by what has 
already left it. We have written our psalms in sun dried 
skin until they bled, thinking songs might remember 
water, that harmony might turn the brine to rain. Heaven 
is only a word said too often, a mirage that keeps its 
distance. When I speak it, sand falls from my teeth.

Our pulses stumble, rhythm dragged through salt flats, 
shanties waiting for a voice. Still, we rise, skin flaked 
white, eyes rimmed red, and we call the horizon holy. 
I can tell you when the tide drew back it left its memory
Inside us, our veins hum it. When our lips crack they 
become a map, when our bones turn brittle they remember
the ocean’s weight. Each hollow is an offering, each dry
swallow a confession. We kneel in the salt-wind, anoint 
ourselves with thirst. The divine is out there, spilling itself
across the flats. If it no longer listens, we let our blood learn 
to sing instead, let our hearts stumble toward hallelujah. 

Poet’s Statement:

On “Brothers in Winter” 

This poem grew out of the true story – in as much as any sensational family heroics story is true – of my uncle scaring a bear from his front yard in Colorado that happened so near the time of my father’s death that I conflate the two in my memories in the same way the poem does.  Like many of my poems that circle around grief, this poem is a way to navigate my own loss. 

On “Heaven of Glass” 

Much of my work focuses on the sacrifices women make to foster the happiness of others, especially in the wake of relationships. This poem grew out of notes on the line ‘small shards of heaven’ that sat around in a folder of abandoned lines from other poems for years before I came back to it. 

On “Salt Sermon” 

I have had a fascination with the lesser known women of Greek myth for as long as I can remember, and I ended up writing a series of poems about the Sirens a few years ago that I’ve been prodding at ever since. This poem grew out of one of those, rambling through Leucosia’s thoughts as she readied herself to drown and evolved to incorporate more than a little navigation of religious trauma, which is a theme that also appears often in my work. 

Betty Stanton (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer who lives and teaches in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in various anthologies. She received her MFA from the University of Texas – El Paso and also holds a doctorate in educational leadership. She is currently on the editorial board of Ivo Review. @fadingbetty.bsky.social