These are the things

by Angela Dawson

 

Lemons grow here       odd in size

as though a congealed yellow sun

placed atop a mountain of fruit

in a seaweed dream-like kitchen

of green buds turning into

blush then pink then red

the signs that we must eat them

with underlayers of green stripes, a hint

of where it all began, these are the things

that remind me of you

of your home            my old home

of golf balls & garden flowers

sprouting roses upon roses upon

all the colors you can think of

gathering like the birds do by the

window overlooking a field of green

& shrubbery              the same window

we’d look out & name creatures

determined by their feathers & see

as ducks brought their offspring to feed

right there in your backyard

kicking up feet in saltwater

floating on your back under palms

tea & pomegranate juice & Thai food

& toast, of course        even the burnt pieces

I’ll smell these things & smell you

waking each morning with me

to pack a lunch so precise

an egg with a pouch of salt, so

when the time came I’d carefully unwrap it

clear as glass            glass so shear

of blues & greens & sea

crafted by your hand                 waves

crashing on sand      crashing on white & black

keys, beside me                       an image of you

I take with me       flannels & sweaters & books

just for now       this house      your home

these are the things

November 2019
Published in Calliope Art & Literary Magazine, Spring 2019

From Copernicus

by Angela Dawson

 

I am a crescent moon tonight

     soon to be full to paint white sky

        I will shine across space

     a spotlight unseen, I am just

a cup brimming with milk 

& levitating

over a backdrop of fire

baring gray rocks

an arid arena

of empty caverns

& crumbling faces

behind a black curtain, I watch

still not far enough away

a semitruck hauling apples

hits a man on 3rd

at full speed

a young woman’s clothes 

ripped at 3am

voice disembodied

sterile gowns & naked figures

they belong to the sun by day 

but by twilight left to me

what would they look like without me

helpless        

I carve the word on my body

somewhere between nectar & sky

they are not my children 

but I give them life

only by accident

only touched by extensions

of waves & wind

only on clouded evenings 

do they wonder 

where I am

there is a reason the dark

      dolls itself in stars

          this place more alive 

             with death than in daylight

             most nights I am glad 

          to float in this pool of black

      from the crater I watch

& feel nothing

Published in Calliope Art & Literary Magazine, Spring 2019