Dreadnought. by Lena Drake

HE COMES FROM the west, sun spilling from his skin, collecting in small pools on my sheets, dirty with seasons of exchange. Our throats dangle off the edge. I can’t tell his hair from mine, gold like the stems of peonies plucked from fertile ground. How they hope for a new beginning. ...READ MORE

Memos jotted down from a rainbow,
Flickers fornicating in the body’s place,
Radiance fickle as a musical note,
And their labyrinths are lovelier than the common maze,
Tease me with your episodic show.

Burgeoning July tips over into arid August, meets
seeds of summer’s eventual demise, her absorption
into autumn. Soon, swallows and swifts will fly
and mists will settle in our valley. My skin
will delight in licks of cool air, its escape
from heat-rashed days, oppressive
restless nights and dehydration.

Lost my husband soon
to be father of our first child
on Wednesday

a child in the checkout lane
reaches up and takes
my hand

Dad jams a jigsaw
of tote-bags and suitcases
into the tied-down boot

of our Vauxhall Viva,
wedging all four sisters
onto the backseat

perched on the pull-down
pow-wows of smoke
from Dad puffing a havanna