It would have been, I think, Sunday—it would have been
dazzle, I think, a song of Solomon,
the far-out in back, gauche, empty, jaunty in their handcuffs.
Imagine yourself delirious: she is lovely
as she appears and disappears among trellises.
This never happened. But remember the body-heat,
there on the eastern shore, a white boiling,
alive in green with only newts and wallops.
You gather your beautiful frustrations
(I hear them falling into handcarts)
names big as pit bulls, burning steeple-bright.
How can you know? You are but moon-watching.
Your knowledge is a European delicacy; it burns like foxfire,
signature of godless cytoplasm, intricate world-being
hitchhiking in the life-saving Christ.
If all tomorrows were borrowed, would you want?
The corolla, its black-iron skin, plays harrier in pokeweed
so pale you think it looks like a half share of rainfall.
They’ve dressed you in ling; you burn, snow-white.
I remember your fabric, prophesy a moonwatch
you can’t imagine. Listen, just listen, to its mythic quickness
as you sit dreaming fever dregs.
I’m coming to kiss you. And you thought I was bending your ear
telling you moonwatches are beautiful, like yesterday.
Ann Howells’s poetry has recently appeared in Crannog (Ire), Free State Review, RiverSedge, San Pedro River Review, and Spillway as well as other small press and university journals. She serves on the board of Dallas Poets Community, a 501-c-3 non-profit, and has edited the poetry journal, Illya’s Honey, since 1999, recently taking it digital and taking on a co-editor. Her publications: Black Crow in Flight (Main Street Rag Publishing ,2007), Under a Lone Star (Village Books Press, 2016), Letters for My Daughter (Flutter Press, upcoming 2016), and Cattlemen & Cadillacs (Ann Howells, Editor–Dallas Poets Community Press, upcoming 2016).