Some Weather; The Penknife; Desire

Vona Groarke

Some Weather

Among the things
(though these are not things)
I did to preempt the storm were:
upturn, stow, disconnect,
shut down, shutter, shut.

But, while the house sulked,
the sky scolded
and I observed an hour’s breadth,
the storm tossed out its tinsmith verbs
somewhat to the west.

The Penknife

One slip and the tip
of my forefinger slits
inch-wide, clean-brimmed
so a flap of skin
is mackerel-gilled,
ripped white to the rim
like the single thread
that pulls open a wave
to a whittle of pulse,
a spate of blood and salt.

Desire

I would like
to feel indifferent
as a plinth or tabletop
of pure Carrara marble
that has all its darkness
corralled in veins
that hold themselves
instinctively intact.

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