Poetry: Selections from Donna Dallas



Intimate Death

A harrowing thing         the closing of eyes       fierceness of breath
a knocking against the throat from each inhale        to pull air into          and open the lungs
simply to sustain
(….if we can still fill the lungs
we can keep going….)
But the knuckles whiten with each grip      the yellow pasted color creeps up the body
like a slow mist
it rolls along cooling the skin as it goes      only when breathe ceases has it finished
its journey
The eyes look into space     seek God       search angels     a worn look
(a final get this shit over with already)
takes place when you really know there is no
coming back       no healing in the body
not this time
When all is quiet    you can hear the heart beat    synced with your own
And when it stops……….
(as your own heart keeps on…….)
Your throat closes up in a wild sadness
as softened eyes look at
empty
You long to understand the cycle     while the birds chirp outside     the warm sun peaks through the blinds       as you tie a cold corpse’s chin up…..
(so they won’t have to break the jaw to reset it later at the funeral home)



Dark Girl

My darkness
opens me again and again
to your raven
 
That infinite bound doom
inspires me
to beat you at your own game
 
With some sense of triumph
I defy you
and come to find there is happiness
like a little splat on my liver
churning into a bulbous orb of flight
with your raven



Kingdom

At the Aqueis Blances she is naked     holds her baby against her soft breasts
………. I’m afraid to go topless
although
I’ve been told
my breasts
are beautiful                  I’m afraid
of my own shadow…………….a wasp flies near me and I immediately fear a sting
she picks up a shell
breasts fall forward as if disconnecting from the body
I desire the mechanism………..the force
longing is a heavy word when it means
to want anything just out of reach it hurts
like the nakedness
or sweet love under sun warmed and
sea-salted skin             I want to wish
but I fear the slipknot
tightening around
a hardened clay mound
where my soul had dwelled……. where waves would break open into
a stunning sapphire coast                       and yet
I sit waiting for the break             that has yet
to come
with my covered breasts I yearn
to open up and show the world my
frozen heart



Where the Monsters Live

Right here
under your nose
hairy
chubby
little potbellied
abominations
beady eyes
yellow puss shade
 
Open the door
they pull back into the shrubs
hiss insect sounds
taunt
with sharp smacking wind
 
Menacing little ghouls
they lurk
behind the barn door
hang
inside from the knob
as I try to open it
while they hold it tight
 
I watch them roll around
on the grass and wonder
why are we in here
yet they remain
naked and grotesque
out there





Donna Dallas studied creative writing and philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to write under William Packard, founder of the New York Quarterly.  She has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, SpillWords and Phantom Kangaroo.  Donna serves on the editorial team of Red Fez and New York Quarterly.

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