24 Carat Obsidian
JUDITH BORENIN
|
Against an early sky
of slate and lavender a lone gull on a pole blends with distance – save for his sharp eyes. His eyes – a violence visited upon the pales and gatherings of greys – a denial of vision – a blankness of thought – polished nibs of pitch that scratch the smooth morning surfaces into bits – eyes in which reside no hint of heights or what has passed before this time – this place- which lacerate with countless little cuts. |
Afloat
JUDITH BORENIN
|
I see you deep beneath
the surface. Mandarin skin pulses – plumbs the depths. Pale yellow leaves float like skiffs above. They traverse the silence in burnished convoys that glide across the leaden water. The tank is open mouthed and full. Off the gate frame melting snow pings like chimes – each drop distinct on ringing stones. A loud jay objects to my presence. Discordant shrieks scatter fragile leaves from nervous branches. Rust flurries swirl. They flutter down my arms. I am part tree – part fish. My face floats – white on gold – companion swimmer. With a plunk you dissolve deep inside the sleek waters. Ochre trees reflected in the still water – take back lost leaves. |
Jenne Micale lives in the woods in Upstate New York. Her poetry has been published in Enheduenna, Mandragora, and several anthologies. When she’s not scribbling, she is making music as the ethereal/wyrd folk project Kwannon, learning Gaeilge and practicing aikido badly.