swifts  &  s l o w s · a quarterly of crisscrossings

to give abundantly
Janet Passehl

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leaves move

collectively so heavily

lowered and raised by the wind

pressing down on the heat

masses of them genuflecting

from the edges of limbs

limbs so heavy and resistant

like laughter

heaving with it

rain

rain (rān) intransitive. To fall; To give abundantly.

To fail to give.

(Re)st)rain.

Fled.

transitive Requiring a direct object to complete meaning.

make the bed

rafters (plural) Spears through the head of the house.

us floating oarless

my hands fold

my hands fold like banana leaves around the varnished railing

yellow light not of rind but of the lemon’s pale secretions

this light impales me

who is outdoors am I

a knob that cannot turn

inertia

veils scents: thyme, mildew and I
cannot turn away our face

doors lined with paper schemes of drakes and mountains, whose interior am I?

minute hiker

dashed in ink

The children eat

The children eat while the women mill. Spills have turned the patterned rug into a stained battlefield.
Colors run freely in one corner. Lucy wonders why the other women are wearing their good clothes
and high shoes. Her toes look like slugs among the Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks.

Cultural blanks.

Her toes are cold but her back is warmed by the sun filtering through the grilled window. She thinks, “The future is old”. She knows she has issues, and they will outlive her. She covers her womb with her stole.

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Janet Passehl is a writer and artist. Her poetry collection Clutching Lambs was published by Negative Capability Press in 2014. She lives in estuarial Connecticut with her husband, their greyhound, and the ghosts of greyhounds past.