Jennifer Reeser
Blue-Crested Cry
We’re through, we’re through, we’re through, we’re through, we’re through And – flanking, now, the edges of our schism – It seems your coldness and my idealism Alone for all this time have kept
Civic Centre (for Kathryn)
Moscow ballet at seven in the evening. You look at everything. You lay your cheek Against my shoulder, smoothing down my sleeve, The Russian blizzards somehow less than bleak, Portrayed with whimsy on the
French Quarter Singer
Strumming your polished guitar with long, nail-lightened fingers, Where are you now, leaning forward a peasant-dressed arm – Lark on the near side of midnight, my crescent curb lady, Ear to your sound, dangling
Renunciation
It’s a jade branch on the floor, broken in two, love, Or a stain raised on the lapped grains of a suede glove. It’s the lace, blown by a strong breeze, of an old
Sapphics For Celebrity
In my dream, Celebrity, four pianos Scored the room, and you on an antique sofa Near two dark-haired innocents asked that I play Something immortal. Dust motes grayed the air, and a sage-green shadow
Elizabeth Leaves A Letter For Dr. Frankenstein
Whether the clouds had abandoned Geneva that evening No one can say now, but what I remember are roses Bruised at their edges, and china cups yellowed with age. “I am too sick of
Good Friday 2001, Riding North
Yellow makes a play for green among The rows of some poor farmer’s field outside The Memphis city limits’ northern edge. A D. J. plays The Day He Wore My Crown, Not knowing it
Imagining you'd come to say goodbye
Imagining you’d come to say goodbye, I made a doll of raffia and string. I gave her thatch hair, and a broomstick skirt Of patchwork satin rags. Around each eye I stitched thick lashes.
The Neighborhood
I wish I could, like some, forget, And never anguish, nor regret, Dismissive, free to roam the street, No matter how The visions meet. Remembrance is a neighborhood Where convicts live with great and
Should You Ask At Midnight
What would I do without your voice to wake me? Cor ad cor loquitur, I’m loath to know. Kitsch operas sound, unhesitant to shake me, The sheers undrawn, the heavens hardly showing, My camisole
Compass Rose
I’d buy you a Babushka doll, my heart, And brush your ash-blonde hair until it gleams, Were Russia and our land not laid apart By ocean so much deeper than it seems. I have
This Night Slip, In His Honor (after Komachi)
This night slip, in his honor Flipped inside out – of lace- Edged netting – is the color Of Shaka Zulu’s face; Of panther flower at midnight Where crow and boa doze; Of vertigo
Civilization
Send your army home to their wives and children. It is late. Your soldiers are burdened, thirsty. Lock the doors, the windows, and here in darkness lie down beside me. Speak of anything we
By This Pitch And Motion
In the upstairs hallway, complacent sunlight Stings the walls with gold and translucent almond Over Turkish runners betraying patterns Faded with travel. At their raveled edges, my daughter slumbers In the room from which
Miscarriage
Fold this, our daughter’s grave, And seal it with your kiss. For all the love I gave, You owe me this. Inside of me, she had Your lips and tongue, my air Of grimness,