DRAGONFLY
Dragonfly ascends; moon silent beneath the drum of wings screaming past.
Thank you to the editor of tinywords/haiku for first publishing this poem.
Dragonfly
Category: poetry
Mother’s Day
MOTHER’S DAY
How she watched him turn me on the stairs, force his tongue in my nine year old mouth as she basked in the warmth of fire and merlot, and left me for weekends with his Marine Corps son though I cried, begged her not to, his crew cut head telling me to lie down, stop crying, spread my legs. And the Mother’s Day when she slapped my face, kicked my ribs, ripped the head off my doll because I was still making her gift when she woke—she screamed you worthless shit after all I’ve done these seven years. Even now I would forgive the nights from the time I was five that I pressed the cold glass of her bedroom window against my cheek while he beat her, waiting for her to tell me to run next door, call the police, forbidden to run before ordered, forced to listen to her pleas, his fist, the breaking chair. Forgive if she didn’t wish me dead or could engage in dialogue, but instead she remains three, six, twelve years old simultaneously, unwilling to approach maturity or sanity. I too have crawled the edge of madness, felt its sweet vortex as if cauterizing pain, but I keep stepping back from her outstretched arms, reaching always to pull me beside her.
Thank you to the editor of Writing Our Way Out of the Dark for first publishing this poem.
Desert Rain
DESERT RAIN
mud seeps
between bare toes
almost naked I walk miles
soaked in desert rain
and catch it with my tongue
laughing as my mother
walks the balance beam of stone walls
while her husband and I point at Catalina cows
and shout Buffalo, buffalo! and she so nearsighted
believes us
spinning
wrists held tight as Geno soars me
round &
round
parallel to the ground
chimes bells ice cr
eam delivered by truck
treasured pink green
yellow plastic dogs
birds
tigers buried in
chocolate strawberry vanilla to be lipped
licked
sucked away
curled like a sow bug
laughing
belly aching as a finger waving in air
tickles as effectively as one would
touching
Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.
Gravity’s Haiku
I used ink for the first time when I drew this and fell for ink’s fluidity, speed and versatility. I also used a Chinese brush and bamboo stick, so chose haiku for the words, which were for my spouse since that day was our anniversary.
Gravity in palm's wings, spring-breath, spirals heart-bind me and you.
Pentimento
PENTIMENTO
How his crew cut head froze, poised above the place I could not see between my thighs, his short rodent hair arcing from my hairless mound, my mind providing the anesthesia of amnesia as if a spinal block flowed through a slender needle, numbing my body clean. And now that you’ve cut your long wheat field hair, he is the one I see near my belly, holding a switchblade against the rivulets of warmth that run from your tongue through my lips, radiating out hips thighs breasts arching back outstretched fingers. Remembering till now only my hatred of him, but as your fingers touch my inner thigh, images slice through muscle of his hand on my throat, palm in my stomach, head pressed into the opening I could not see, and I want to run from your arms which have held me warm against your chinchilla skin. As your pomegranate taste hits the back of my throat, his rancid stench catches, numbs my body clean.
Thank you to the editor of Rising to the Dawn for publishing this poem.
Attending
ATTENDING
I saw this car's hand letter sign in its back window yesterday: ATTENDING CHURCH. Funny, it appeared to be parked. And I'm surprised this car attends church at all unless it's saying that under this starlit sky whatever/wherever we are, we are sacred and always attending church.
Thank you to the editor of Marin Poetry Center Anthology VI for first publishing this poem.
Night Snack
NIGHT SNACK
Tonight we plucked that apricot moon and ate it, not in a gulp, but with long laps of tongues, carving of teeth, squeezing nectar against palettes till it trickled down our open throats.
Thank you to the editors Linda Watanabe McFerrin and Laurie McAndish King for first publishing this in HOT FLASHES 2.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 