Bio Note: I’ve been spending time with grandchildren and travelling to Bend, Oregon. My study will call me in the fall at which time I plan on writing new poems and clearing the junk off my computer. Right now, flowers are my poems and I intend to keep them healthy and vibrant; our back yard filled with color.
Blessings on the Deer My Husband Struck
He might’ve been thinking himself invincible. The glassy night, a hedgehog, hedging its bets as he drove past Happy Gardens Chinese Take Out, a thump intruded his thoughts, so he slowed, backed up, saw the doe’s writhing mid-road, her head arched as though taking account of what happened her hindquarters no longer moveable, her brain perhaps racing for some explanation why the body won’t lift, then, only, slowly, she perhaps realized her own dying— the two-legged beings she feared swooping down, horrific angels in the happy garden of life, one man pulling her front legs to wiggle her curbside, away from further harm, but what further harm can arrive, tongue dripping from her mouth? And the man who steered his Honda Element turns away, the unexplained taking its swipe. He’ll drive, eyes open, back into the silver light which cautiously threads a road home and that now seems endless.
A Palm Isn’t a Psalm
A write-up’s no tropical invitation. It’s deployment, possibly the hole. The hole is the end-all of entrapment. No privileges or packages passed out there, no celadon bowls filled with fresh fruit. * Poetry becomes a fleeting vessel that sometimes frees my writers. I know because I watched a poem on the fly. It landed in water, transformed a cigarette butt into a boat and was carried past electrified fences. * To hold a poem in your hand is to hold God in the palm. —A palm is not a psalm, but it could be. * A handful of men become angels; no yard fights, no exchanges of contraband, no depressive isolation. In the silence of themselves they occasionally find themselves. Sometimes, only rarely, a poem frees them.
©2022 Dianna MacKinnon Henning
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