Poetry By
Dawn Flora Cadwell
Published on: 2/11/2011
Laying Up Summer
Summer is a line-dried bed sheet snapped taut between two sturdy nanas. Corner to corner (peach juice and freeze tag) Selvedge to fold (sparklers and sugar ants) The nanas step together. Over the corn thunder clacks like steelies colliding in a packed dirt circle. Sheet, color of cloud edges, surrender the breeze, you are complicit in this act. In the held-breath of autumn, the nanas' fingers meet, knot and loose this very night's benediction, bright as a firefly, reliable as a comet.
Published on: 2/11/2011
This is a new recording
You've reached 555-8346. I'm not in today. I've ditched my job, steady as a too-kind boyfriend. Today, I am an astronaut. I have thumbed a daydream to Houston, where I will be the problem. A word worker with stars on her retina, ninth grade math on her resume. For contact, leave a series of primes at the tone. If you are my expected houseguests, mi casa es su casa, as in mi unmade bed es su unmade bed. The milk is quite nearly old. The cat will sleep on your forehead. Over. Out.
Published on: 2/11/2011
Descending From Royalty
The old man's hands split lips in the ring, heads in labor strikes, hardwood in South Dakota. Through palms size of dinner plates fist-heart pumps blue blood of Charlemagne and workingman red. I unfold Europe on the kitchen table. "So, this was once ours, Granddad?" He spans the Frankish kingdom with a splay of fingers and laughs, "Twelve hundred years is a long time to go without a bastard in the family."
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