Poetry By
Adrienne J. Odasso
Published on: 11/26/2012
Letters to Lost Friends & Imaginary Lovers
When I think of you, which is often, snow falls in the chambers of my heart—not because we are at war, but because we missed our one chance to meet. I pause to imagine the sound of your laughter, and your name will be the name of my first daughter. * In my darkest dreams, I have you: quick eyes, stark smile. Still, the distance between longing and having was always what I wanted: the harsh, unbelievable thrill of being the hunted. * There is nothing to forgive. You gave me a boat, then set me adrift. And I lived. * You hated me for guessing that it was you—but no, I knew just who I was looking at that day beside the fountain. Under your breath, you swore. I chattered, spat out cherry-pits, and loved you all the more. * You gave me Eden: snake in the lilies, and one last chance to get even. * If I ever lose you, you will be the hunted, know the thrill of the chase, be the one whose face I'll see in rain on the pavement, will throw my life away when I can't make the call. * You will be the one I've loved enough to go quietly—that is, if you'll even dare to let me go at all (& dare you I shall)
Published on: 11/27/2012
Carnal Knowledge
It's lust for the hard and the cold, the ice-silvered glint of light through a diamond or a dozen. And as for the gold, I'll have it any way you can name it: yellow, rose, white. I'm frozen with fear to admit it, this grit-polished, cloth-finished pleasure at my throat. No, I can't see it, but I know that your star-struck eyes will fall there in silence every time you seethe, and every time I breathe I shiver to know that this fierce and fire-wrought, wire-taut thing is pure, forged trust. See it and need it. But I forbid you to touch.
Published on: 3/23/2006
The Damage Done
In my dream, they told me that you had died before dawn, but you were walking again so soon. I took this as I'd take news of recovery from sickness, though I stared with wildest fear when you came home in the suit that Mom had bought for your birthday. Going-away presents should not be gifts for death, but there you were wearing it, smiling as if you'd been told you had a fever. Not having blood anymore is not the same as having a fever. We went out to dinner that evening, you in your suit and Mom quiet and grave in a matron's dress. Behind her hand, she said to me, "Be kind to your brother. Don't run from him."
Published on: 11/18/2005
One if by Land
In front of me, a man is holding a wooden ship in his lap. It has black-stitched pink fabric sails, and rope made from crafter's twine. At the prow, the name REPUBLICAN is painted in green. I cannot think why a model ship should have pink sails and a lavender hull, or why this man is carrying it on a bus. My thoughts are clouded by color, by the name, by the fact that the wind is just so, and if he lets go, it might sail out the window and shatter on the rocks. Oblivious, the man smiles sadly, dreaming of home across the ocean for miles.
Published on: 9/25/2005
Not Eden
In a book with a yellow cover, I found the name of a plant that I'd found in our wood one February morning when an early melt unshrouded the brush. The berries were small, pink, and clear as dawn over the rise of our mounded land. When we moved in, my father looked at the mounds and said, "We've got ourselves a burial ground or two." But for the dead, I'd have roamed farther afield, and it was then that I found the berries cold in a pile of leaves that my brother hadn't cleared in the fall. They told me never to taste—no, not at all for any reason— but they were sweet, iced mint and sharp as the season.
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