Poetry: Selections from Donna Dallas

Intimate Death

A harrowing thing         the closing of eyes       fierceness of breath

a knocking against the throat from each inhale        to pull air into          and open the lungs

simply to sustain

(….if we can still fill the lungs

we can keep going….)

But the knuckles whiten with each grip      the yellow pasted color creeps up the body

like a slow mist

it rolls along cooling the skin as it goes      only when breathe ceases has it finished

its journey

The eyes look into space     seek God       search angels     a worn look

(a final get this shit over with already)

takes place when you really know there is no

coming back       no healing in the body

not this time

When all is quiet    you can hear the heart beat    synced with your own

And when it stops……….

(as your own heart keeps on…….)

Your throat closes up in a wild sadness

as softened eyes look at

empty

You long to understand the cycle     while the birds chirp outside     the warm sun peaks through the blinds       as you tie a cold corpse’s chin up…..

(so they won’t have to break the jaw to reset it later at the funeral home)

Dark Girl

My darkness

opens me again and again

to your raven

 

That infinite bound doom

inspires me

to beat you at your own game

 

With some sense of triumph

I defy you

and come to find there is happiness

like a little splat on my liver

churning into a bulbous orb of flight

with your raven

Kingdom

At the Aqueis Blances she is naked     holds her baby against her soft breasts

………. I’m afraid to go topless

although

I’ve been told

my breasts

are beautiful                  I’m afraid

of my own shadow…………….a wasp flies near me and I immediately fear a sting

she picks up a shell

breasts fall forward as if disconnecting from the body

I desire the mechanism………..the force

longing is a heavy word when it means

to want anything just out of reach it hurts

like the nakedness

or sweet love under sun warmed and

sea-salted skin             I want to wish

but I fear the slipknot

tightening around

a hardened clay mound

where my soul had dwelled……. where waves would break open into

a stunning sapphire coast                       and yet

I sit waiting for the break             that has yet

to come

with my covered breasts I yearn

to open up and show the world my

frozen heart

Where the Monsters Live

Right here

under your nose

hairy

chubby

little potbellied

abominations

beady eyes

yellow puss shade

 

Open the door

they pull back into the shrubs

hiss insect sounds

taunt

with sharp smacking wind

 

Menacing little ghouls

they lurk

behind the barn door

hang

inside from the knob

as I try to open it

while they hold it tight

 

I watch them roll around

on the grass and wonder

why are we in here

yet they remain

naked and grotesque

out there

Donna Dallas studied creative writing and philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to write under William Packard, founder of the New York Quarterly.  She has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, SpillWords and Phantom Kangaroo.  Donna serves on the editorial team of Red Fez and New York Quarterly.