Jenny Kalahar

a butterfly in neon gas
flashing candied colors
breathing that which
exhaling that which
...

I missed it all
The whole darned thing is over and done
I had sat there in the front row, facing the simple coffin
And I let it go and pass and end
...

In afterlife will I see the King
with outstretched arms to me
Or will I sail a ship alone
across tawny sands of memories
...

Like a blobfish without soulful eyes
more orange than white, this pumpkin
takes over my garden
its ridges uneven
...

There is more than a rippled pane of tinted glass
between air I exhale
and the world I used to live in
under the tree of my childhood on tire swing
...

Swinging in darkness
in a house
suspended by unseen ropes or chains
where the creak and moan of movement
...

The roast is done! Sit down, sit down!
Stop teasing your sister and sit down right now!
Pass the salt
Where's the gravy? Who's hogging the gravy? Save me some!
...

Rise up, pages!
Open to my finger-pulls!
Take me inside where I want to be,
to some fantastic world
...

There sit or sway these self-crowned Kings of the Rod
Some by day as black flies swarm their baskets
Some by night, when the water seems deeper
Some by night so dark the plunk of bait going down
...

When I have grown from tigerlet
Into master of my house
I will call for nip, for bowls of tuna
And my toys will all be mouse
...

Into a strange house, office
apartment I step
wiping my shoes on the outdoor mat first
as a respectful salute
...

This imagined ocean floods my rowboat in throbs
pounding up through a hole I can't locate
to the screeching rhythm of gulls enjoying my misery.
My hundred-year-old rowboat, beat to hell
...

A powdery pale friend of my mother's
sagging stockings nearly white
nearly blending into wrinkles elsewhere
on face, on neck, on arms
...

There is a woman struggling in a room
writing with fingers riding on the backs of black keys
until cramps creep up her sides and back and knees
and still she writes on.
...

The poems have opened wide their margins
Stray words falling everywhere messily, beautifully
Because I love you
And fountain pens have leaked
...

Crisp as new snow on worn, leaning fence posts on a moonlit night
Soft as the woolen blanket wound around a baby held by carolers
Urgent as the hug between sisters long parted as one steps through an airport crowd
Smooth as hot chocolate when its temperature barely cools enough
...

The crowded desk at which I feel I'm chained
is a type of oak, compressed and stained
and stained again with rings from cups
from which I spilled and would not clean up
...

These arms hang from my shoulders
too pale
like branches of a strange, white tree
deposited on this gray shore from another planet
...

Rainspout
pouring petals
from tree to roof to patio
what was concrete
...

June yawns and lolls its panting, month-long tongue
along the lakeside park for me
Open school doors flap and slam in the dusty summer wind
as if every organized system in the world
...