For how can I be sure I shall see again The world on the first of May –From “May Day” by Sara Teasdale I’ve fallen on black days. My ears are deaf to birdsong; nose unmoved by the scent of hyacinth; the soft crush of early strawberries between my molars untasted. Mid-Spring breezes skim over…
Category: prosery
dVerse — Prosery — December May Yet…
Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow. –Christina Rossetti, from Daughter of Eve Bell is working her way towards upper management. Armand is an exchange student beginning a summer internship. As Bell speaks fluent Spanish she’s been asked to mentor him. Even though she, forty years old, is twice Armand’s age,…
dVerse — Prosery — The magic of rain
I wandered lonely as a cloud. –by William Wordsworth, from his eponymous poem Seeing a cumulus puff amongst cirrocumulus sheets made the mountain dragon laugh. “You’re an anachronism!” Try as I might to slough off the words, his throaty grumbles clung like heavy ice crystals. They turned my cushiony cotton into spiked crackles which shredded…
dVerse — Prosery — Visitor
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper from, “Valentine,” by Carol Ann Duffy The small, square window’s bars are iron grey. Much of the time I’m a thin lump hunkered on a concrete slab, sandwiched between straw mattress and cotton feather tick. Only my capped head, bright eyes, and red nose are visible. Even…
dVerse — Prosery — Honey Sun Honeymoon
And bring no book, for this one day We’ll give to idleness. –from William Wordsworth’s, ‘Lines Written at a small distance from my House… Day 2: A drapery whoosh woke me from a flying dream. Bathed in burnished gold light, I stretched, cat-like. Inhaling deeply, my nostrils quivered with the aroma of fresh coffee from…
dVerse — Prosery — Bad Girls
I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night–from “When We Sing of Might,” by Kimberly Blaeser I pick one up at the runaway shelter. Another from her granny’s house. One from court-approved fictive kin’s house. The one picked up from the detention center is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Wednesday is…
dVerse — Prosery — Morning Muse
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?— by T.S. Eliot, from The Waste Land Morning Muse She lay in a heap at the bottom of the back steps. Cold from the October morning’s hard-packed dirt crept into the arm, her right, that crumpled askew under her large…
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