Copyright © 2001 Bob Dornberg


Tonight the earth is leopard and ash, moths
necklace my throat, and unitemized rain against
my cheek is pink as poppies hidden under the lid
of earth's powder box, like ripe-smelling sex,
balmy awning to the face, jangling
a corsage of rose to the flesh, pulse, and now askew,
soft, in a lagging liquid like love. There's a little girl here,
dollbaby, hoarse from lacquered seed, bumped
by deep-voiced birds, she howls defiance in moon's skin,
I had to be like this, how would I survive?
You must have gone back to explore that tobacco tasting woman,
your tender bark skin speared one piece at a time, her waiting
nipples placed like oysters in your mouth.
I will be a woman, and bougenvillea, I'll give the moon
a shove. And I am left alone to listen to the tar-voiced
news of the new Medea, post-partum in aquarium din
numbering the minnows drowned as they fell to be lost, wailed
as I do, as I lose my upswept hair, eyes painted open under bridge.

Nanette Rayman
Copyright © 2001

Nanette Rayman's work has appeared in Carve (University of Washington), Onyx (Chapman University), Attic, Comrades, Stirring, PoetryMagazine, Aesterius, and Samsara Cirles of Regret.

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