Orb Weaver
I’m particular as an eye,
unwritten as a lament,
teeth in my net,
I sing in circles a rare
translucence.
Labyrinth, sheath,
water laces me
into being.
I am the cold
morning light halved
like relief.
Sculpture and silence.
Isinglass, air—
all matter
comes from me, the wind
unspools milk
from the pods,
it strips the palms bare,
but cage, cage,
I hold a little
pocket of gravity, I hold
rainbow-quick, the rope
and swallow.
Perseid
Boat of night, I ease
into your black waters.
No turn of circles in the oarlocks—
tonight
I’ll follow.
The oracle never looks
like an oracle,
it’s the cockleshell
that comes after
the tide.
How many times have I
looked up at a sky
like this—
all chipped teacup
and veil and felt
the losses as nearly
manageable, pebbles
I could arrange
to balance
a curved spine.
Rocking I enter.
Rocking I leave.
Jennifer K. Sweeney is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Foxlogic, Fireweed, winner of the Backwaters Prize from Backwaters Press/University of Nebraska. Her other collections are Little Spells, How to Live on Bread and Music, and Salt Memory. She is the recipient of many awards, including the James Laughlin Award and a Pushcart Prize. She teaches poetry workshops privately and at the University of Redlands in California.
Read more by Jennifer K. Sweeney originally appearing in Terrain.org: two poems and four poems as well an essay, “White Noise.”
Header photo by Svetlana Orusova, courtesy Shutterstock.
