crossing the grassland

green fields slant with light.
your heart a flooded meadow,
sunken low. skin burnt
an indiana prairie shade. the sky
spins on and on, damp
white as spider silk, a shroud. a web to catch
what flies. bleached as the bones
that surface, sundry spines and sacrum.
sacred, it sits between the hips. an anchor
weighing the dead down. linchpin
for our longings. the crux
that fights the dust, the hands we can't let
slip away.

 

---

jenny hanniver

dried sea skins stuck
with dead fur, lipless grin
of eerie joy. a mouthful of
spiny teeth, a siren’s sunken
cheeks. this is a mermaid
mummified. her gold
mane fallen off the skull, her marine kingdom
dried to dust. smooth hands that held
a comb or coral curl in upon each other.
how could these pinched
and narrow fingers have known
the green sea’s sunken garden, picked pearls,
drawn sailors to drown eagerly, how could
this strange and shriveled fish become
a crown prince’s saltwater bride?
a beauty gone
to brine, to bones,
scaled tail swallowing the spine,
skinny arms still bent as if meant to break
the surface.

 

---

on the north shore, pelee island

snake skin in the sand,
paths stroked smooth
by cold and beaded stomachs. numb
limbs of trees, bleeding
pulpy green in spurts of shoots and leaves.
the sky anesthetized to our eyes by white
wine and weather. breath cold as broken china
chips lips and cheeks. pale fingers knot
and loosen, grip at wrists. we kiss
with our whole faces. turn away from atmosphere,
the sudden rush of blue
the white space between water and air.
try to find each other again in the clouds,
in a sky without stars.