when i couldn’t speak
she drew me a circle
there were no words to communicate
the shape i didn’t understand
but her circle did not close
and it turned outward on itself
and i was sad to see it
stop.
she called it “spiral”
and i begged for her to complete it
until it reached the ends of the paper
and continued on to the table
and pooled onto the floor,
heavy like honey.
she pointed to pasta and said it again
she held up a loaf of bread and smiled
and the word spread across the face
of a warm round slice
like butter.
then to dessert and moved her mouth
as if to kiss
and motioned towards dessert and said “swirl”
to the red and yellow
giving spiral a surname
an “S” alias whisper with an “L” for a tail
that taps the roof with her tongue
and runs down the slick back of teeth
like a secret.
i learn her language
and the shapes move out to where
i can no longer see the edge of her world.

~ 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

::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

there is a stillness in contemplation
of the next motion.
there is this silence, for pain for rapture
overlapping hush and wonder.

all of it all of it tumbling smooth
like stones in the water
strange circular sickness
sugar-drugged apathy
for sameness
and hurt
for
1.

and what delectable pain . . .
and all of it from a curious picture
and a linen kiss.

i am still inventing something
for the morning.

i am hoping to re-invent morning.

i am wrapping the last threads
off immeasurable dreams
around my wrists
so i float
to where
you
may
be.

when you feel a tug
it is a (t)ether
you should tie it tightly
about your waist
and pulsepoints will lead
where they may.

and i will come nearer
to your ground.

and i pray you will wake up.
and the last silvered tail
of whisper will ask:
are we there
yet?

~ Andrea E. Janda