poem index


Lola Haskins

Printer-friendly version

by this poet

He is rid away to the tenant farms 
and I take up my pen to list 
the shakings-out and openings. 
And my thin letters lean as sails 
that, though driven, cannot arrive.

May the ninth, I write.
And: Mrs. Ferguson. 
Unbutton the bed pillows 
and plump them to the air.
Then: Take the curtains down 
and with your
                 St. Augustine

Light shafts down on 
the assembled congregation of sails 

billows my shirt      sends me to where thin countries 
stretch like needles    to a low and distant shore 

from which    suddenly     canoes appear

I'm crossing the river where it narrows,
carefully, it being Sunday
and I'm past the root end of the log
when I look up,
and there's a haunt sitting
on the blossom end.
I can see trumpet vine and blackberries
through her white dress.
Gnats hang in the air.