Anthos had been
when i awoke
keen to the ground.
My hair fallen lush
over the grass
my mouth wet
with unspeakable ghosts
as i had been feeding on flowers
heavy with the sap of a woman’s intent
and with affections for
the amorphous stranger.
i can now twine my fingers
into the stems
push my knees into the earth
stretching here forward
feeling the nine-days wonder
gathering the texture to my naked
attuned body.
i am learning.
The Beaujolais waits nearby,
a helpless nectar on its side.
The sweetness lingers past
from where i breathe
to where i remember
the depth of you and the face i haven’t seen.
The light returns
i cherish our exchange
wait for seven days to evaporate
and hungry for the rain.

~ Andrea E. Janda

words backsliding, kicking and biting
doubled-up, dropped, uncoiled nonsense
a tired, escaped lover leaves
a cold kiss like the pelt of sleet
a callous, sandpaper caress.

the endless white noise of fictional rain storms
and his name so close to water, pours
through my broken, cupped hands.
but the words won’t come with tapping
nor gathering -
no puddle collects in sand.

into hopeful shallows, a shining line is cast
while empty hooks come back, silver glinting
eyes and teeth smiling still, the dead promise
of sleep.

the muse he used to keep me up at nite
incessant chatter until i heaved a sigh
and agreed to write.

but the muse is a strangled messenger
the scribbling not a song, just a rhythm of
the t cross line little e open eye
half me still i m tied up in the two-looped
l and the double-hump of m
waving goodbye dropping two consonants
g (ee)
(wh) y
below the line.

two cat tails switching in time
to music i cannot hear through my
own wild whispers
and deafening cries.

~ Andrea E. Janda