Session Four Anthology

MENTOR: Leila Chatti


A cowboy night in summer
sitting under the old elm
skipping stars.

Insects placing bets on the moon,
coming up short on porch-light instead,
while withered leaves rattle

broadcasts low in the evening air.
Stag beetles like prayers.
One hits the screen door, bounces off--

catches its leg in the knit loop of my sweater.
I flick it back toward the elm
away from the honeyed flood-lamp.

When it hums and returns,
I catch it in a jar
and examine its pincers.


Lauren K. Carlson 


Grey plastic baril travelled warm seas, chilly oceans    
arrived like Christmas- we were in the grips of prairie winter.

In the cold  grey-white light we would pull out:
tropical coloured satin bows for braiding in my hair   

pomades      amber-coloured jars of cream   Anaïs Anaïs
perfume jar milky white and ridged   colonial pastel pink

mint green   round containers   housed silky scented talcum         
poufs nestled in anticipation of dusting skin golden sheen obsidian.

Jars of sweet tomato jam   perfumed with vanilla and curled
bitter orange peel warmed my left hand as if just lifted from

a hot canning bath    my right hand drew quénèp fruits to my
hungry mouth, juices dripped and stained my shirt summer.

There were white communion eyelet dresses  stiff cotton smell
seabreeze and hibiscus  pressed folded into embroidered napkins  

stitched-on birds of paradise and bougainvilleas.
We put away the treasures   emptied- I would

lay the baril on its side   crawl and curl inside inhale
island salt   sand the faint smell of ship diesel as I rocked

cradled by the roar and swish of the Caribbean sea.
Outside     snow an onding.


Junie Desil