Session Four Anthology
MENTOR: Leila Chatti
A cowboy night in summer
sitting under the old elm
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.