by Wren Donovan
You squint to bring inked figures into focus.
I smell of bark and linen and something
sweet perhaps perfume, here
I’ve found a flower pressed between
my thighs. Ivory texture catches light and
dark curves carry meaning, offer
secrets, fairy tales, and purple prose,
elegies and recipes, poems of love and
horror. Lies and wishful thinking.
With distracted hand you turn me over,
trace my spine. Remember
things to do, remember sleep.
I sleep now, too, and dream of odes
and stories, definitions, hymns of praise
and condemnation. Gravity takes me
to the floor, dust echoes. You’ll find me later,
pick me up to smooth a page.
And I’ll still serve you words, but you’ve forgotten
how to tease out poetry from deception.
Wren Donovan’s poetry appears or is upcoming in Poetry South, Orca, Chaotic Merge, Yellow Arrow, Harpy Hybrid Review, and elsewhere. She studied folklore and creative writing at UNC-Chapel Hill and University of Southern Mississippi. Wren reads Tarot and history books and talks to cats. She lives in Tennessee. You can follow her on Twitter @WrenDonovan
Thank you for sharing my poem!