Barbara Daniels
The New Man
A woman stuffed a new man with straw,
braided his hair, bound his feet
to hers and took him dancing.
The woman perfected each twist
and bend, loved the smell of straw,
its steady prickling. She felt the easing
in her thighs, the life inside
her own life. She mentioned
a drink, and the two of them went
to the coffee shop of the dead.
She loved the shine and glitter
and desperation. The food
was good but conversation stalled.
Coffee cooled on the counter.
I can let this sorrow go, she said.
Dropped the man in a heap
of concepts and objects and
brushed off the straw. Resumed
her even breathing. What her body
knows it isn't telling. She won't say
what burns in the backyard bin.
Numbered
I've heard of people who won't let go.
They prop dead mothers in cars,
drive the interstates, tell them everything.
They cannot be reconciled.
Alone on the beach, I sieve the sand
for lost dimes, shells that shine
like smashed pottery. They jam
my belly, stick in my throat.
I swim to the spillway and
come back sobbing. Scylla drops
her six wide mouths to my brittle body.
Wired, articulated, I could hang,
swing on a hook on a classroom door,
crazy bone, coffin bone, bone china,
neatly numbered in black ink.
Barbara Daniels' book of poems, Rose Fever, was recently published by WordTech Press. Her
poetry has appeared in The Louisville Review, Karamu, Slab, The Literary Review, and many
other journals. She received two Individual Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey State
Council on the Arts and a Dodge Full Fellowship to the Vermont Studio Center.
Home
Issue One
The New Man
A woman stuffed a new man with straw,
braided his hair, bound his feet
to hers and took him dancing.
The woman perfected each twist
and bend, loved the smell of straw,
its steady prickling. She felt the easing
in her thighs, the life inside
her own life. She mentioned
a drink, and the two of them went
to the coffee shop of the dead.
She loved the shine and glitter
and desperation. The food
was good but conversation stalled.
Coffee cooled on the counter.
I can let this sorrow go, she said.
Dropped the man in a heap
of concepts and objects and
brushed off the straw. Resumed
her even breathing. What her body
knows it isn't telling. She won't say
what burns in the backyard bin.
Numbered
I've heard of people who won't let go.
They prop dead mothers in cars,
drive the interstates, tell them everything.
They cannot be reconciled.
Alone on the beach, I sieve the sand
for lost dimes, shells that shine
like smashed pottery. They jam
my belly, stick in my throat.
I swim to the spillway and
come back sobbing. Scylla drops
her six wide mouths to my brittle body.
Wired, articulated, I could hang,
swing on a hook on a classroom door,
crazy bone, coffin bone, bone china,
neatly numbered in black ink.
Barbara Daniels' book of poems, Rose Fever, was recently published by WordTech Press. Her
poetry has appeared in The Louisville Review, Karamu, Slab, The Literary Review, and many
other journals. She received two Individual Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey State
Council on the Arts and a Dodge Full Fellowship to the Vermont Studio Center.
Home
Issue One
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Chickenpinata
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| a journal of poetry issue one |