JANANN DAWKINS


Spenserian Wedding

Another broken sword, a tooth, some dice
beneath the floorboards of the gaming room:
all grand finds for an archaeologist
but awful presents for a groom. A bloom
boutonniere releases its perfume,
creased in the garments scratching at his neck,
black chrysanthemum with hairs like fresh broom
clattering at the air. His hands, warm, thick,
clutch at what they can: the floss of the strick,
delicious silken flower, fissured folds
citrus in their scent. His bride, a white wick
defoliated, whirling in her field,
ensnares her husband. Everywhere her threads
elicit treasure, everywhere they wed.



Ms. Carrie

The ditch her teeth lie in, black
and luminous, reflects

her mood. The sponge
of gums, soft as sopping leaves,

cushions her tongue
and speech. And she speaks

as though the numinous night could speak
through her, make her a medium

aerated with smothered wind,
choked and brackish, a breeze

in a clotted marsh. Would she,
swaying like a waterlogged weed,

take your hand, medium
of a different kind, read

the seaweed on your palm
and reveal the thin young

drowned in the bog
of your womb? Would you stand

still for such news? Or would
you retreat into curtains

of rain, seeking strength
in the wet saplings around you?



The Cruellest Month

Sparrows speak spiritedly for one
full minute, then silence themselves.

It's tax day. My period has come
a week early, and something in my mouth
tastes like blood. A tooth
has cracked like an acorn, spilling
premature fruit into the earthen
floor of my mouth. Outside,

music floats through air like smoke
as families barbecue pork on ageing
terraces, hickory pricking the nose.
Skins brown in constant sun, absorbing
filaments of radiation. Tomorrow,
the threat of freezing rain.