The Movements In My Heart Are No Longer Glacial (for SM)
By Mali Collins
June 29th, 2026
There was yarrow in her home.
Her lifeless yarrow suspended with the assignment to watch us sleep
Hung for no explained reason at all.
No yarrow hangs here.
Maybe a single cutting leans in a glass jar—
Maybe on the mantle
Maybe on the nightstand.
My yarrow changes the color of water
I gazed last night
at its last night
at its deep, deep brown.
I heard your voice in that water.
You whispered,
Shhhhh Shhhhh
Small finger over lips
Small finger over nose
I hear your voice as I pour out the water.
You whisper,
Shhhhh Shhhhh
Small finger over lips
Small finger over nose
No house, no home.
This is a poem written about a plant that was a fixture in my childhood home—yarrow. Now estranged from my mother, I have recently learned that the make-shift home that she and her five children built will be demolished. This poem is dedicated to my youngest child who in her toddlerhood has made our house a home much different than the one I was raised in, and that a piece of that home will always live in mine in my own displays of yarrow. - Mali Collins
Mali D. Collins is Assistant Professor of African American and African Diaspora Studies at American University. Her work has appeared in American Quarterly, Souls, and the Black Scholar. Collins is a certified full-spectrum doula and a reproductive rights activist.