Androgynous angel, with fiery-tipped tongue
like a hummingbird, ruby-throat, lingering buzz
of the bee wings, jewel feathers all lighter than flame
you circle my head like a halo, a dog sniffing
for something familiar or something exotic,
erotic. No word fits, too much
and too little. Fingers are lighter than feather
than breath. Wind over water, water over sand
over earth that receives and then swallows.
We release ourselves when we are ready.
Finished, reborn to the red sky and feathers
and the insects and buzzing, born again gold
to one another.
After Reading About Teresa of Avila
Wren Donovan’s poetry appears or is upcoming in Poetry South, Chaotic Merge, Harpy Hybrid Review, Yellow Arrow, Moist Poetry, 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 didn’t mean to end up here,
says Our Lady of Loretto,
the lady of the rocky creeks,
green closets hiding deer,
soundtrack rich with birdsong.
She whispers while I sleep
here, far from cities,
far from where I thought I’d be.
Transported by the angels, she comes
to Tennessee, the greenest place.
I left Atlanta once upon a time
and I’m still dreaming. She whispers
Hush, and pulls the cotton quilt up to my chin.
Palms open, benedictions, blessings:
shriek of blue jays cracking silence,
paper voice of beech leaves in the wind.
Here is your place to rest,
your deepest cover. I will keep you
safe enough, and calm
enough, and you’ll forget, and
then remember other things
like your own voice.
What if I were
to wax prosaic, wane
proto-erotic, shine out
symbiotic. You bring home
the eggs and I the bacon,
let us stew and sizzle
slide across the underside
of our sea-home, here
along the seawall slimy
ripe with lichens, glossy
with the undertow of life.
What if I were
to glisten for you, shed
these scales mercurial,
show off my bones, the spines
that comb and
choke if you’re not careful.
and back again as refuse
of the fishy goddess,
once she’s had her way