Muscle of boa, you turn
smooth as cognac stilled
fifty years in the throat.
You muffle hard outlines
under your skirts,
offer a grey handkerchief
to each certainty.
Behind the civility of veils—
what manners! You understand
how vulgar clarity can be.
At your discretion,
the lampshade’s tassels.
Yours, the axe swung wide.
You own the dog afloat
on the ocean, the blurred print
on the dog’s sodden collar.
You shake the hand
that finds a cold canary,
burning lung that must inhale.
Smudge-mouthed last child
left in the parking lot.
Dead horse, middle fork,
gloved hands in hair.
Date: 2009
By: Dorine Jennette (19??- )
From Troubles of The World 