Penelope Gives Instructions on Weaving and Men

First you shear the sheep.
You’ll need lots of wool, so that men
can’t follow what you are doing.
Always spin your own thread,
go slow. Even the Fatae,
Night’s own weird daughters,
work for years
to get to the shroud.
Set your dyes to match
the living room, not
the bedroom. Take time off
on Thursdays or Saturdays,
make your suitors move
furniture: shift a sofa,
hang a picture, haul away a bed.
When you warp the loom, be
certain of the tension. Keep them
at each other’s throats
for as long as you can.
In the weaving, strive
for perfection. Unravel and redo
as much as you can.
And when your errant husband returns,
chases the others away, asks you
to come to bed, go ahead and tell him:
Yes, dear, as soon as
I finish this bit of weaving.

This poem originally appeared in Heavy Bear, Issue 3.

When Persephone Ate the Pomegranate

No doubt she washed the dish.
It’s what women do when lost—
find something to clean,
to put in order, something
to hold and rock,
as we were rocked by our mothers
in their own sorrows.
He wouldn’t notice a clean dish,
only that she’d eaten—
a contract signed by ignorance.
It’s a thing men know:
that food, a roof, a bed,
the semblance of love,
is the price of a wife.
Who would have thought
that six ruby seeds could taste
so bitter? Sit so heavy?
The wintery accusation—
the stain of stale lust
on cold sheets—
just cold enough to freeze
an entire world.

This poem originally appeared in Heavy Bear, Issue 3.

The White Horse of Uffington

Forever broken, this curve of turf,

by lines deep carved

in centuries of chalk—

white as if some crazed garden path

circling to nowhere

ran amuck among the eternal sheep. 

Sheep farmers with pick and spade,

from below in the valley, come

as they have always come—

through lavender and mustard seasons,

past the iron hill fort they

come up from their fields.

Fields once oxen plowed, now

stitched together by railways,

pinned in the corners by roundabouts.

Here Roman legions once camped,

gawked at Epona’s steed, at her people

come to clear the chalk.

Chalk horse steady on the hill

as it has always been, seven year

to seven year. Wide now, the body,

then narrow necked—

one tender hoof stretched out—

running full tilt, forever.

Originally published in  Full of Crow, June 2009

Those Dream Houses

When you dream of houses—of thick-walled

stucco bungalows skulking across Sonoma,

the gingerbread and bric-a-brac fantasies

of New England, or cold French villas

beside greying seas—you should

dream, too, of bleached linoleum, unpolished

spoons, of dry tangerines in wire baskets,

the velvet dust of shelves and thumb-licked

books, the strange machinery

of basements.

When you walk in dreamt hallways,

between undiscovered rooms where

the etched light of dim lamps picks rust

off iron bedsteads and lingers

over the many-fingered clocks,

you should dream as well of the closets—

filled, as they are, with feathers

and peeling sequins, hatboxes,

failed prom dresses, the detritus

of mousey sweaters, cedar shavings.

And when the dreaming takes you

to hopeless chests never meant

for a bride—where soft-edged cards

of sewing needles and a grandmotherly

jar of mixed buttons horde their

dreams of usefulness—then,

and only then, will you understand

the sharp wit of broken windows,

and the clean-swept floors

of an unfurnished mind.

This poem first appeared in  Full of Crow, June 2009.

Living in the hour of the wolf

I am tumbling in that awkward moment

between the owls and larks, when sleep

is held at bay by shadows of things

undone and all the could-have-beens,

tensed toward morning, still on guard

against the nightmare and all her ponies.

I have been washed in salt-watered

worry, crumpled by the daily

uncertainties, a dandelion wanting

the morning, hoping for

coffee-sweet gossip and soft

scandals not my own.

I will whisper into darkness,

pull my tattered icons around me,

facing the silver wrinkles in the river

of my life and move on,

always thirsty to name that well

from which I dare not drink.

Originally published in Full of Crow, June 2009.

Thistles

          You are all the same to us,

solitary, standing above us, planning

your silly lives. . . . Louise Glück

You can argue the finer points

of hoe or hand trowel, thrust

reluctant fingers into

our prickly intentions

and pull,

but this means nothing to us.

You seek solace in the docile flowers,

the whispers of the wood violet,

the reverie of roses,

the sunflowers hanging guilty heads

burdened

by future generations;

but we will not be silenced. We are blue

voices repeated, rising: from

the last white taproot, from

each silky seed thumbing

a ride

on the wind.

Blind weeders of tame gardens,

you are all the same to us.  

We are savage daughters of the

mother: we crowd the columbine,

bite bare ankles, tangle your thyme.

We wear purple. 

You are never safe

from our sharp critique.

This poem first appeared in  Full of Crow, June 2009.

A nice note from an editor

Commentary by Full of Crow editor, Aleathia Drehmer, when asked "Who is your favorite small press poet?" from "eight questions with aleathia drehmer" in Nibble Poems:

Man, this is a hard question. I know so many flipping great writers. I do really enjoy the work of Jacob Johanson and Barton Smock. I think I read them pretty regularly and maintain an interest in their work as they progress. Recently, I began reading the work of a woman named Jana Russ. This woman knocks my socks off. I had not heard of her until she submitted to Full of Crow and her writing makes my heart beat faster and my skin tingle. But like I said, I know so many great writers it is hard not to mention them. I’m like that overly optimistic best friend. I see something wonderful in most people, even if it is something small, and hope it grows into something great.

Thanks, Aleathia!