salt descending

Crimson tumults of sensation

reveal me. I turn as cultured

vultures pick delicately

at my nudity. Clinging

to secreted hope, I know quick

lightning will soon strike me down.

The sky finds an indigo outlet

but changes instead to an electric

periwinkle, with a tornado effect.

Fresh rain escapes over my eyelids.

Somehow the vultures find their way

to my bones, then suck with hunger

at the marrow within. In the translucent wind

tumbles a crumpled chocolate

wrapper. I pick it up and scrutinize it

with ginger fingers. Then I toss

my shoulder under it, salt descending me.

Nonsense Sonnet #9½

Sweat-dripped foreheads glistened, temples soaked in

sour glory, as we goosestepped sideways

into transgalactic oblivion.

We hurtled, warp speed, quick as cosmic rays

into a quasar clearing. Travel-drunk,

we staggered, stricken with a stellar sway.

A voice boomed in our heads. We feared we'd sunk

into insanity. We formed a chain

of hands: links of clammy flesh, chilled like hunks

of thawing sausage, spongy like a brain.

The voice said Kneel, so we knelt. The voice

said Breathe, so we took breaths. It said Regain,

and we remembered who we were: afraid

angels. It said Remain, and so we stayed.

Spiral Spring

The angle falls at last glance.

The sun reveals the same:

two lines concur the corner.

Quarter past. The hour

sings its shadow. In the ring,

a circle meets its fellow.

Almost True

Two lifetimes from now, I am

braining someone with polish.

A polished pipe, lead pipe

looks silver. I am bringing

the pipe into a friendly face

for a dream-reason.

The inquisitive patrolman, I didn't want to

use him as a blanket for the first.

In the kitchen I stir sauce

for pasta. I watch through the slat

for the revolver of police lights.

Basil splits the air. I stir;

my mouth waters. I stir; I stare.

Found Poem: Survivors/The Hours

I survivor why death

contemporary had life

the scary total wolf

retirees' novels recovered &

retirees say payments

an applied star

the initial love contract

everyone will heroically increase

story hour here

retirees insist payments

just part wolf is looking tax-free

Oldest Profession

The mouth, lipsticked

and curvaceous, parts

to speak a metaphor.

The tongue twirls a lasso,

pulls a likeness

through the loop.

Like rope,

words levitate.

Do Tell

Anthers writhe in the swell of a peony.

"Results in a day! Jesus Christ."

The coroner tweezes the maggot,

collects his sample.

"Thank God she had those tiny white feasties.

We can catch even shavers now."

Sated on the vast milk of the suspect's galaxy,

milky itself, the grub curls

like pearled wire.

Janann Dawkins' work is upcoming in Blinking Cursor, Blue Fifth Review, The Daedalus Review, Danse Macabre, decomP, Existere, Lung, Ouroboros Review and Suss, among others. Her chapbook Micropleasure was published by Leadfoot Press in 2008. She resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she assists in editing the eclectic journal Third Wednesday.