In The Womb We Dream of Carnations by Dan Lasher

July 25, 2011 § 1 Comment

In The Womb We Dream of Carnations by Dan Lasher

Monday sits watching the spectacle of the weekend
plotting her revenge.
Wind is the paint brush of The Divine
against the clouds.

I drink the milky flesh of your thigh,

Ashen-eyes
you move just as good across the page
as you do in my mind,
or across the hardwood floor of the earth.

Soft sundress on you on the floor,
and rain fell like buck shot.
Light danced between your legs
and I saw God and Heaven.

You are a flood in my arms,
if my eyes were mirrors
you would see what I mean.

I’ve walked in to find you fixed
and nodding on the couch.
Your eyes dreaming of saxophones
and out of state plates.
We rode on Coltrane,
mined our souls for lamp-oil
right up ‘til morning,
we kindled a fire of twigs,

Loins scarred,
I’ve seen you naked
on your bedroom floor.
Starving for air
like a fish,
fin stretched south to Heaven.
I’ve seen you dying—

Sick with time. When our day grows old,
and all our grand visions for the world
have gone to bed—
the face of them drooping down—
obscure.
We sit around contemplating wine bottles.

Don’t you know that in the womb
we dream of carnations? The dead come back
to visit the earth as song birds.
I have witnessed this.

A Praying Mantis by Maryanne Sanders

July 25, 2011 § Leave a comment

A Praying Mantis

at the foot of my bed
and the room is on fire
like Moscow summers.
Tall, naked, and tangled with hair
cobweb strangled like spider egg sacks,
he stands with hands touching, tapping,
counting my offenses with fingertips,
long and pointed quills
of celestial justice oozing.
His sermon is booming
and stretched like a jet
through sound.
I’m pushed by salvation,
wind whistles my ears
high
like low sugar.
His wings are vibrating
the hum of seven saints
but his eyes are blue and gurgling,
a stream beneath ice and red sea.
Spine a stressed sapling.
There’s no fruit to grow,
but the bees
still return in season
for flowers
when it will rain for forty nights
and forty more
forever drenched  in sacrament,
Eucharist loaf.

He’s not the St. Michael of my girlhood
as he kneels over my bed,
careful not to graze his haloed head
on the ceiling fan.

Where Am I?

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