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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. 
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  • Home
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    • About >
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  • Issues
    • Issue I
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    • Issue III
    • Issue IV
    • Issue V