Monday Jul 22

PowellDannyeRomine Dannye Romine Powell is a two-time winner of the Brockman-Campbell Award for the best book of poetry published in the preceding year. Her most recent collection is A Necklace of Bees (U of Arkansas P, 2008). She has poems forthcoming in Prairie Schooner and Tampa Review. She is a staff writer for the Charlotte Observer.


She’s planting seeds, bulbs, anything
she can sink into the ground, though it’s still hot,
gnatty August in the South. The neighbors, spying,
agree she seems to prefer gardening by moonlight,
on her knees, allowing the cool soil to drift
through her fingers. They swear they’ve seen her breeze
into the house for water, slam back out for air.

Why Do I Suddenly Remember

that olive drab Army blanket
and the short wave radio beside the bed?
It was afternoon, a Sunday. We had said all
we could say. You closed the blinds
against the bright swarm
of mango trees out back. I could still see
their outline as you kissed me, the wool rough
at my shoulders, static running my thighs.

half-remembered life

clusters of water oaks
emerald peacock on a branch
that sparkling tail
grabbing light
your nails your red nails
always tapping my shoulder
say this   don’t say that
this one    not that one
smile now    you will be happy
the way I wasn’t
for all the reasons you said
were the right ones
you should see him now
the wrong one